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I Was on Safari Once and Never Felt So Alive

by Kimberly Nunes


Men tell me I look years younger—


even my regular lover, he says,

"You have the body of a thirty-year-old,

your face is forty, maybe thirty-five,

it's just your neck

showing signs."


There was a man on a plane,

we had a bet, I showed him my license,

he was surprised—"Your eyes are clear

and your body…athletic!"


They seem to want a morsel

each one, a touch

before I disintegrate,

to hold the illusion or

bear it away

whole-or apart, the pieces carried.


Such times, I feel like an anthill,

temporary and amazing, on the African

savannah, the one in Botswana

I once watched from a Jeep.


Ten feet tall and trembling in the sun,

the earth it was made of, a million

fine creatures at work.


They inhabit my senses, the ants,

how they see me, hold me up

and together, how they pass