ON THE GROUNDS OF EVOLUTION

I knew that before there were movies, actors danced with panthers
sated with warm meat in a forest that was curious,
creaking with ratted trees and silver bones. The actors
were always upstaged by the panthers, their yellow eyes
leaking elixir like moonshine into a cup. It was windy
at the creek that split the forest with a path
of stones and glacier water. The panthers
were unafraid of the cold and wind. But the actors
always found reason not to near the creek: chilled
bones, algae washed rocks that were too slippery,
decapitated, skinless trees bobbing the shoreline,
searching for their limbs. The actors dug
into the driest sand like mites into skin,
fingernails aching from the fullness of earth,
until they found a clouded liquid they could
cup in their hands. They guarded their dirty
wells at night from the panthers, who
were too clever to touch the slurry. If not
for the wind and froth, the actors would
have heard at night the laughter of the panthers, spear tipped tongues flicking water over wise fangs.

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