Kathryn Levy: They

They scare us with headlights. They swerve              

into our bodies. They surround us with houses

and ten foot high fences. They attach

words to our panic, as if we were human. They clap    

their hands, shoot their rifles. They move

a mountain of dirt in the middle of the forest,

which isn’t a forest—not anymore. Not

Any More—they sign petitions against us,

hundreds of letters scrawled on the pages.                     

They have called the forest The Final Chapter.

They plant forest flowers, they insert the new trees,          

and have dug a hole where

the pond used to be—and filled it with water

carried hundreds of miles by

the water sellers. They put up a sign: Beware

of the Deer, a black figure leaping

across a bright nowhere. They stand

over our bodies: It is such                                       

a shame. And shake their heads and turn

the locks on the doors. At night when they’re sleeping,

or trying to sleep, we peer in their windows: What                    

is coming next? They don’t provide answers because

we can’t ask the questions. And

neither can they. They just

get in the cars and turn on the headlights

and watch us watching them in

our fear.

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Kathryn Levy is the author of Reports (New Rivers, 2013). She lives in Sag Harbor, New York.

Copyright 2020 Kathryn Levy