Animals: Two Poems by Danielle Sarta
Wolfdog as Poet
My mom says I’m her good girl. Yes, I’m different, especially from my smaller sisters, but my mom says that she loves me anyway. Her good, responsible girl. To me, that means I’m her favorite. Why else would she spend as much time with me as she does? We train every day, sometimes before everyone else wakes up and sometimes long after everyone has gone to bed. My sisters are jealous. But my mom tells them they shouldn’t be. I am different, and she needs to help me learn how to not be different. How to be her good girl. When the three of us are allowed to roam outside, I watch my sisters. I protect them, like my mom tells me to do. They don’t always like to listen. Once, the smallest wandered too far, and when I finally caught her, I bit her leg to drag her back. She didn’t even bleed, but my mom was furious. I was left outside that night. It rained, but I wasn’t cold. My fur is thicker than my sisters’. The next day my training was harder than before. But life isn’t always training and protecting. Sometimes my mom dresses me up, takes me out. She likes to show everyone else how much of a good girl I am. How well behaved and responsible. My nails are cut the night before, and the knots are brushed out of my fur. Sometimes the fur on my face is trimmed. To show others how much I look like my mom, my sisters. You can’t even tell, so many people say. You can’t even tell they aren’t related. I don’t like when they say that. But my mom does. She’s proud of me when I sit in line with my sisters, lead the pack. She says we’re such good girls. I always want to be her good girl.
One day, I wake up and there’s something in the back of my throat. I cough and scratch, but it doesn’t move. My mom doesn’t know what’s wrong. She says she’s never heard of that happening before. She says I must be imagining it, that I must drink some water and all will be fine. It is not fine. I drink and I drink but the lump doesn’t fade. I cry. My mom yells at me. She doesn’t like when I use my loud voice. She says I’m a bad girl. She kicks me outside; tells me I can’t come back in until I have calmed down. My sisters watch from the windows. I can’t look at them. I wander from the house, towards the trees. Maybe a run will help. I start to pick up speed when I smell something. Blood. Warm and fresh. And lots of it. My feet move faster than they ever have, faster than my mom trained me. I take a deep breath and then, there. A deer, its ankle caught in a barbed wire fence. I’ve helped deer before. I would call my mom to set them free, but this time feels different. The deer thrashes harder as it sees me approaching. I want to tell it to calm down. I’m going to help. I’m going to help. I’m going to… the closer I get the stronger the blood smell becomes. My teeth feel too big for my mouth, and the lump in my throat is still there. The blood smells good. It’s dripping thick from the wounded deer’s leg. I am close enough to lick the drops from its pelt. It bellows. Anger rushes through me, and I turn my head and bite. Harder than I’ve ever bitten before. My teeth sink into the deer’s throat. The gurgling sound it makes as it strains against me matches the sound I make as its sweet, dark blood trickles down my throat. I bite again. And again. And when the deer is still and quiet on the ground I am still biting. Eating. I can swallow. The lump in my throat shrinks with each bite. I am cured. I make my way back to the house. When my mom sees me, she makes a noise I’ve never heard from her before. She bellows, like the frightened deer. I can see the whites of her eyes. The lump is gone, I try to tell her. Am I still your good girl?
In 1998 the Lioness Adopts an Antelope
Grief
stricken
the mourning mother
takes another’s child as her own
sheltering and guiding them for weeks
across their dangerous savannah home
together lying in the acacia shade
her coarse tongue intending
to groom by nature
still too rough
on their
skin
Mal
nourished
the calf wastes
away even as the mother
tries to feed them the tender meat she killed
she doesn’t understand why they won’t
eat why nothing she does is good
enough for them why their eyes
always shift around her
looking for something
when she’s right
there
No
body
was there
when the mother returned
from a hunt to see her calf dead
a lion having devoured them in the night
and she chased him off of her baby
but what was left was not enough
for her to groom or to feed
or to shelter or guide
so she knelt
down and
ate.
About Danielle Sarta
Danielle "Dani" Sarta is a MFA candidate at the University of Central Florida whose poetry and creative nonfiction highlights their experiences as a queer, transracial adoptee in central Florida. They always knew they wanted to be a writer ever since they played with Barbie dolls and MyLittlePonies, weaving intricate plots of romance, betrayal, and revenge that only a kid with access to the newly budding internet could weave. She can be found online probably more than she should be.
