The Reptile Farm
Jan Bowman
When we were little girls,
my father had us pose for pictures
in exotic places, looking like twins
in matching shorts or dresses,
hers pink or red, mine always blue.
My sister's ringlets hung obediently
around her apple cheeks
but my own fluff was lifted in waves
from unseen winds and races.
On car trips through the Rockies,
mountains spoke to Dad, requiring
a sacrifice of sorts — his virgin
daughters stuck out on some lofty limb
or rock, a thousand feet of air for prayer,
or backed up to the grandest canyon's rim,
our little smiles so new
against the reddish blue of ancient deeds,
one push and gods would rub their needs away.
He was a sporting man, guns, grizzlies,
trout and tackle — daughters, too.
Not far from Sarasota, where we wintered,
he spotted a reptile farm, a tourist zoo,
brightly flanked by billboards, red and blue.
His movie camera ready, his pride high,
he ordered my sister and me to take a ride —
a ride on a real live crocodile. We knew
Jungle Joe was wrong, god help us silly girls.
We sat on the animal's thorny back, our tender
thighs just the size for him. He slept. He moved.
He snapped. Head rolled on a powerful neck
and jaws like lightening cracked. My sister's arm
leapt from the jagged scissors with a scream.
Run, oh, run, little girls — the gates
are closing fast and safety lies somewhere
neither present nor past.
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