War of the Foxes - Richard Siken

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takes the field, his horse already painted in

      beneath him. What do you do with a man like that?

      While you are deciding, more men ride in. The hand

      sings weapon. The mind says tool. The body swerves

      in the service of the mind, which is evidence of

      the mind but not actual proof. More conquerors.

      They swarm the field and their painted flags unfurl.

      Crown yourself with leaves and stake your claim

      before something smears up the paint. I turned away

      from darkness to see daylight, to see what would

      happen. What happened? What does a man want?

      Power. The men spread, the thought extends. I paint

      them out, I paint them in again. A blur of forces.

      Why take more than we need? Because we can.

      Deep footprint, it leaves a hole. You’d break your

      heart to make it bigger, so why not crack your skull

      when the mind swells. A thought bigger than your

      own head. Try it. Seriously. Cover more ground.

      I thought of myself as a city and I licked my lips.

      I thought of myself as a nation and I wrung my hands,

      I put a thing in your hand. Will you defend yourself?

      From me, I mean. Let’s kill something. The mind

      moves forward, the paint layers up: glop glop and

      shellac. I shovel the color into our faces, I shovel our

      faces into our faces. They look like me. I move them

      around. I prefer to blame others, it’s easier. King me.

      I cut off my head and threw it in the sky. It turned

      into birds. I called it thinking. The view from above—

      untethered scrutiny. It helps to have an anchor

      but your head is going somewhere anyway. It’s a matter

      of willpower. O little birds, you flap around and

      make a mess of the milk-blue sky—all these ghosts

      come streaming down and sometimes I wish I had

      something else. A redemptive imagination, for

      example. The life of the mind is a disappointment,

      but remember what stands for what. We deduce

      backward into first causes—stone in the pond of things,

      splash splash—or we throw ourselves into the future.

      We all move forward anyway. Ripples in all directions.

      What is a ghost? Something dead that seems to be

      alive. Something dead that doesn’t know it’s dead.

      A painting, for instance. An abstraction. Cut off your

      head, kid. For all the good it’ll do ya. I glued my head back

      on. All thoughts finish themselves eventually. I wish

      it were true. Paint all the men you want but sooner or

      later they go to ground and rot. The mind fights the

      body and the body fights the land. It wants our bodies,

      the landscape does, and everyone runs the risk of

      being swallowed up. Can we love nature for what it

      really is: predatory? We do not walk through a passive

      landscape. The paint dries eventually. The bodies

      decompose eventually. We collide with place, which

      is another name for God, and limp away with a

      permanent injury. Ask for a blessing? You can try,

      but we will not remain unscathed. Flex your will

      or abandon your will and let the world have its way

      with you, or disappear and save everyone the bother

      of a dark suit. Why live a life? Well, why are you

      asking? I put on my best shirt because the painting

      looked so bad. Color bleeds, so make it work for you.

      Gravity pulls, so make it work for you. Rubbing

      your feet at night or clutching your stomach in the

      morning. It was illegible—no single line of sight,

      too many angles of approach, smoke in the distance.

      It made no sense. When you have nothing to say,

      set something on fire. A blurry landscape is useless.

      I saw them hiding in the yellow field, crouching low

      in the varnished dark. I followed them pretending

      they were me because they were. I wanted to explain

      myself to myself in an understandable way. I gave

      shape to my fears and made excuses. I varied my

      velocities, watched myselves sleep. Something’s not

      right about what I’m doing but I’m still doing it—

      living in the worst parts, ruining myself. My inner life

      is a sheet of black glass. If I fell through the floor

      I would keep falling. The enormity of my desire

      disgusts me. I kissed my mouth, it was no longer

      a mouth. I threw a spear at my head, I didn’t have

      a head. Fox. At the throat of. The territory is more

      complex than I supposed. What does a body of

      knowledge look like? A body, any body. Look away

      but I’m still there. Birds flying but I’m still there,

      lurk there. Not just one of me but multitudes in

      the hayfield. Want something to chase you? Run.

      Take a body, dump it, drive. Take a body, maybe

      your own, and dump it gently. All your dead,

      unfinished selves and dump them gently. Take only

      what you need. The machine of the world—if you

      don’t grab on, you begin to tremble. And if you do

      grab on, then everything trembles. I spent my lamp

      and cleft my head. Deep-wounded mind, I wasn’t

      doing anything with it anyway. And the birds looking

      for a place to land. I would like to say something

      about grace, and the brown corduroy thrift store coat

      I bought for eight-fifty when you told me my

      paintings were empty. Never finish a war without

      starting another. I’ve seen your true face: the back

      of your head. If you were walking away, keep

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