The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Fifth Annual Collection

A story must be held

tightly in the hand,

fingers cupping the weight of it.

Here is “Mr. Fox,”

dark, brooding,

a black rockfall of words

in the center of my palm

A story must be held

loosely in the heart,

black stone of it a second chamber,

the beat of it an echo,

murmuration, remembrance of a voice.

A story must be held

firmly in the mouth,

a pebble between teeth,

a graveled voice:

“This is the tale of Mr. Fox

as it is told in England,

as it is spoke on the moors.”

I shall tell you the tale right now:

with my mouth,

with my heart,

with my hand,

my thumbprint on

a thousand others

already whorled into the stone.