Safari, Rift Valley

Roy Jacobstein

Minutes ago those quick cleft hoofs
lifted the dik-dik’s speckled frame.
Now the cheetah dips her delicate head
to the still-pulsating guts. Our Rover’s
so close we need no zoom to fix the green
shot of her eyes, the matted red mess
of her face. You come here, recall a father
hale in his ordinary life, not his last bed,
not the long tasteless slide of tapioca.
This is the Great Rift, where it all began,
here where the warthogs and hartebeest
feed in the scrub, giraffes splay to drink,
and our rank diesel exhaust darkens the air
for only a few moments before vanishing.