Dian Fossey Clasps Digits Hair
What emerges from the tightly flexed fingers
gripping a blackish tuft of hair is less desperation
than an otherworldly focus. Shes tracking the hair mattes
that are left; shes pursuing the bloodstains that rise, splashed,
over ant hills, over emerald fronds that arc up to trace
her throat though she scarcely feels them
except as preternatural fingers that slide toward her
suddenly, that caresswith the stiff-angled touch of the largest primate
her jaw line as Digit always did, as Uncle Bert did in his prime.
Decapitated, both. The mountain gorillas, the emerald and mud-drenched
Virungasdid Fossey lose her desperations edge, her desire to stroke
fingertips that hadnt receded into oblivion
but that moved beyond her physical reach?
Who knows what awaits gorillas in the afterlife?
Who knows what awaits anyone?
Joy? Hope? A continuation of pain?