I saw the fox

edge into the darkened room.

Fugue state?  Dream?  Nightmare?

It turned to look at me,

asked me into the darkened room.

I began to remember.

I didn't like for Mr. Rufe, the Preacher Man,

to touch me with

his old, pink cottony hands.

But Momma would be mad

if I insulted him,

so I'd sit there on the couch

in our cold living room,

and he'd stroke

my warm bare foot

and say his mixed-up Bible words over it.

How beautiful are thy feet with shoes,

O prince's daughter!

Stroke, stroke.

Hear me now,

for I am come into my garden.

Stroke, stroke.

In that garden is

the lily among the thorns.

Stroke, stroke.

I hated that stuff.

I'd sooner be a toad,

the thorn among Preacher Rufe's lilies!

And I'd forget about old Mr. Rufe

down there on the floor

mumbo-jumboing over my foot

and imagine all the kinds

of toads and frogs and pretend

I was turned into one

but was not going to stand

for being kissed by anybody.

"Who is this

coming up from the wilderness?"

Mr. Rufe ought to know

the answer to that one.

Stroke, stroke.

"We have a little sister,

and she hath no breasts."

It was not a thing Mr. Rufe

ought to be pointing out.

Stroke, stroke.

"The smell of thy nose

is like apples."

Is that not dumb?

Even if it is in the Bible?

Stroke, stroke.

At first, I'd feel kind of spooky.

Sort of tingly

down the back of my neck and . . .

Then Mr. Rufe's big voice would cut back

until I just about couldn't hear it,

and I'd feel tired and dozey.

"Ah, yes, sleep but let your heart waketh,

little sister, for I have come

leaping down from the mountains,

skipping down from the hills!

Do not be the little fox that spoils the vines

and the pomegranates,

but feed among the lilies with me.

Let me kiss you with the kisses of my mouth,

for they are sweeter than wine."

Mr. Rufe would kiss

the top of my foot then,

but so gently,

like a butterfly landing.

At that moment, I was as close

to liking him as I'd ever be.

I would ponder that

and wonder at it

and think it was a weakness in me.

He could buy me

with his dog Doodlebug.

He could buy me

with Uncle Wiggley books.

He could buy me

with his talk of wine,

his kiss upon my foot.

Or almost.

And then I would rouse up,

thinking about the difference between

grownups saying, "Kiss my foot!"

and Mr. Rufe after me

with "kissing my foot."

And when I thought about the differences,

I knew he couldn't catch me

because thinking about them

was all I needed to break his spell.

I tried to tell Momma,

but she wouldn't listen,

just said that a girl child

must never be the little fox

that spoils the vines.

Well, it's the fox who's

come up from the wilderness now,

and I thank him for it!