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Ursari

Wanita was destined for them since the day she was born with Tata Beda
standing over her, big as a bear himself. She tamed him with a coo.

When Tata Beda returned to the cages, redolent with Wanita’s new baby
scent, they say three untrained cubs danced their first steps.

They say she smelled of honey and musk, that her laughter tinkled like
a music box. They say this, then they look at me and say no more.

When I was born, the fortuneteller folded her charts and shrugged. I
smelled like child and laughed like girl. Tata Beda slept in his bed.

They say it was her smell that drove them mad, that made them snap. My
sister was always destined for the bears. And I was destined to live.

You can tell the type of creature she used to be from the smell of sea breeze in her hair and those kelp rags she calls clothing.

She will still dance on the waves, every full moon, liquid fingers reaching out to get her, to taint her. To mark her as their own.

Her folks want to have her back just as much as we do, the lovely Pearl, glistening on my pillow. She refuses to choose a side.

If she’ll eat fish, she will belong to us, to our world, ever after. Which is why she claims to be a vegetarian.

I think she does not care for us, really. She just changed over for the love of wind and flowers. For the long walks on the beach.

I am magic, she whispers. An incantation. She worries the words between her teeth.

She totters on the highest of heels, clear Lucite. She is careful, arms high at her sides. She could stop the world.

I am magic, she whispers. An invocation. She worries the words between the soft tips of her fingers.

She is on a stage, slick, black. Each step, a hard echo. The music wraps around her, binds her to this place.

I am a dark magic, she shouts. An exultation. She worries the words between the humid meat of her thighs.

It’s London Zoo and ten minutes to closing time. The clock walks in and out of cages. I love you baby when you laugh like that at monkeys.

Penguin and pelican, wing in wing, approaching. It’s some bird act, I know. Two birds from nowhere. One flies, one walks.

The zoo stuntman is immobile today. Poor orang-utan with nowhere to go. Panda winks at him, tries to cheer him up, and fails.

We’ll take a photo of you with the lovebirds, and you pay for it on the way out, please. We are zoo paparazzi with a Polaroid camera.

What happens when all the animal cages are cleaned? They get dirty again in no time. What happens when they get dirty again?