Friday, November 22, 2013

the buck rut, 1992

                                      d.martin SF
                                  October 14, 2013
                             dedicated to us women
                              trackers at Oceansong
                                 outside Occidental
                                  the buck rut, 1992

                           I heard the huffs wide-eyed:
                         huge male animals, posturing,
                       shuffling with their ungulate toes.

                  The antlers together sounded beautiful,
                 awoken and alive outside at the ecotone
                    by that powerful rhythm, and passion.

                   She'll let you come close now, into her
                    lovely dark eyes and neck of soft fur
                       the same color as our dry season.

                            I was there, a young woman
                         with others to talk about before
                        Columbus, before the gold fiends

                       before ranchers killed the mountain
                      lions and grizzly, and who are scared
                      still how soon it'll fall apart and burn.

                          We organized and fundraised for
                          the other quincentennial stories,
                       because of fierce compassion for life.

                  I wish that this poem could be an adventure
              where my family works on a ship to meet friends
           at the mediterranean shore of a rustic fishing village.

            But instead my mind won't stop it already about all
          the needless suffering and how the oak trees are dying.
      I'll think back twenty-one years and make up a riddle about

    that moment when it was no longer complicated or confusing,
  why mothers have "too many" babies, why guns are everywhere:
Ask who has the most to lose by change and there lies the answer.

photo above: Angel Island 5.12.13

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