the Serengeti, I dream my family there,
wonder how they are still running free
but, I am here where people come to stare,
take pictures of me, say how lovely. Lovely?
Is it my patterned skin? Do they know our
patterns are as individual as their fingerprints are?
I hear my eyes are doe-eyed with wonderful lashes
– I suppose they are spectacular, and my ears –
pointy and delicate are special also. Still, they
can compliment me all they want – I still want
to go back to the Serengeti.
Sick with longing for…by Elizabeth Bachinsky
from her poem Valley from the book Home of
Sudden Service.
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