I've chased the fast fox

Old wolf, I said, 

leave a tatter 

for my family:

a scrap, a rag,

a bone, a button—something 

to bury.

                Because, I said,

I've chased

the fast fox from

the henhouse, and twisted

the livid blossoms

from failing stems,

mercy, spare a rag,

a bone, a button,

for my family.

And because, I said, I sang

the names of saints

on Sunday, and lay

with another woman's

husband Monday eve, leave

a scrap, a rag, 

a bone, a button—

to bury.

And he said:

It will take

whatever it is given. It will

be still.

[Karen Volkman {1967- } 'The Case', from The Best American Poetry 1996]