The mountain lions can’t see from here that it’s too late. They are standing on this little outcrop of rocks, patting the ground with the pads of their feet and craning their necks to see. Squinting into the distance, all they can see is a tunnel of smoke which means nothing to them. Even the mountain lions can’t hear sirens or engines or screams or the thunder of cracking wood. Even the mountain lions can’t see the little black specks moving away from the tunnel of smoke. There is the smell of burning but again, this means nothing. The burning will not reach up the mountain for them. Another smell on the air – deer. White-tailed deer on the other side of this rocky outcrop. This is a smell that means something. The stalk, dash, slash and a throaty growl as the deer hits the ground, kicking the air as its eyes roll back white. Dusk is blazing red tonight. The cubs feed and the mountain lions lick the blood off each other’s fur.
I looked over when you started to moan
Panting like you’d run a race
Eyes still closed, breath catching
hey, hey, I’ve got you. what’s wrong?
crushing the baby
some relation to Michael Jackson
he crushed the baby
how did he crush the baby?
he was sleeping, he didn’t know it was there
whose baby was it?
Michael Jackson’s baby
You frowned, pressed your nose into my chest, sighed
Drifted back off to dreaming
I thought of the last one (the child of a friend)
And its manner of going (crushed under a car)
And wondered how many children would have to die in your sleep
Before your brain finally reached whatever point it was making