You recognized me.
From your tree height, your fluttery eyes
found my teary ones. I, who, at the age
of seventy-one holds within me
the seven-year-old who in the Bronx Zoo
watched you munch from trees
planted in a fenced-in place.
The little girl squirmed. Wondered,
if there were somewhere your wobbly
legs could run at their full speed.
She thought about walking
her apartment hallway,
back and forth day after day. Imagining
spaces outside where children play.
Now I sit with other safari pilgrims
in a Land Rover covered with dust
from the dried and pocked roads.
We keep our hands inside, don’t stand up.
Our driver navigates through the bush
stretching around us. Then you,
your neck grazing into the sky—
your eyes recognize me as I
recognize you in your land.
