In “Fossils,” a man crouches at the edge of a wood, watching a woman. The moment she sees him, she bolts, and he gives chase. The poem follows her panicked, zigzagging flight down a hill, over a ditch, through bushes—and his near miss as she twists away. He finally grabs her by her long black hair and drags her down, crying out in victory, ready to threaten or harm her. Then she laughs, and the power flips.
It’s an unsettling little scene. The speaker’s voice is caught up in the thrill of pursuit: he notices her hair with strange, admiring intensity and sounds both triumphant and baffled. The mood is tense, raw, and almost mythic, like an ancient predator-and-prey moment. But the final laugh punctures that menace, leaving the reader unsure whether she is mocking him, playing along, or refusing to be a victim.