SKUNK

Bradford Morrow

Here is the poor skunk. He is marked and marred. He is blacker than hindgut mud. He loves his blackness and he hates his stripes. He wishes the snow on his hot black back would melt. He wishes the comet in his iron-dark night would fly forever away. He would give his soul for an hour of berry blackness. In an hour of black he would be prized as inink. In an hour of black he'd be royal as raven, this witch-black, alley-black cat of a skunk. For an hour of black he'd make a pact. He would give up the thing besides black he loves best. The sweeter-than-lily scent that protects him. The scent he so trusts, he would trade it off. Is there no one who would give up her black, her shadow or shade for some virgin white? White and a drop of satanic perfume?

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