remembering lucille clifton

THE FOX BEGAN lurking outside Lucille Clifton’s home when the poet was in her 50s. It sat on the lawn, its red coat and lush tail illuminated by a porch light. Though she knew it was harmless, the animal frightened her, Clifton’s friend and fellow poet Anne Caston remembered. “Lucille would kind of crouch behind me as we went up to her door,” Caston said. “Or she would call me. She would be checking out her window and say, ‘Anne, that fox is out there, sitting in my yard, staring at my door — what do you think she wants?