Poetry

Zoo Dreams (2 of 2)

I don’t remember the wild,
but my mother does.

She won’t talk about
what happened to her herd,
but her left eye,
sightless and milky white
speaks of a cruel world
beyond these walls.

Home to her now means
not having to wander,
to destroy all the time,
or worry about her children
and she says,
that is worth the space.

Though recently,
she does mutter in her sleep,
about the graveyards of Asia…

They are calling out to her,
across oceans
and across instinct,
begging her
to finally come home.

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