MAY 1998 | VOLUME 2, NUMBER 1
POETRY
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David Hunter Sutherland
RICHARD FEIN lives and works in Brooklyn,NY. He is a contributing writer to Renaissance Magazine. more
IN BOX
COLUMNISTS
LINKS OF THE MONTH
QUESTIONNAIRE
RICHARD FEIN
Feeding fruit to the monkeys and apes in the primate house,
I stop by the chimp cage. I toss in an apple.
It's evening.
The falling sun is as ripe red as the fruit.
I'm unmoved by the sunset.
I want to finish my job quickly and punch out.
I rush and pitch food to the beasts.
One chimp stands
holding on to a window bar, motionless.
Through the window the sun surrounds his head like a bloody corona.
When his mate swings over to him
to play with the apple, he waves her away.
He is alone, and wants to be.
The sun sets in the distance between the elephant and birdhouses.
He remains still, till
the red in the clouds turns dark blue.
Only then does he turn
and we are face to face in the darkening cell block.
His black pupils, his contorted, convex lips reveal
hostility.
I have invaded a private moment.
I could have been home by now; it no longer matters.
Surely he must be moved by the sunset.
Some tropic bird squawks in the distance.
He turns his head. Is he trying to remember?
I try to move closer, but the bars are immovable.
And I have left the keys in another house which
is far, far too far, to walk back to now.
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