The Eye of the Wisent

J.A. Roney

The Eye of the Wisent

Pressing soul of foot to shell strewn

sand south of the Cape I approach his shifting

sand haven, a salt licked edge of a wound,

with tattered tent, backpack, and bicycle¾

his makeshift clothesline hangs

with sea-washed laundry like lung ta

prayer flags flickering in a wild horse

wind. He kneels, this old leathered bull,

on the edge of his earth, tries to hang

on to pebbles of words the beach patrol toss

his way. I’m so close now, so close now

I see into the hazeled eye of the wisent.

My lungs slow to slip in for a breath

of transient rasps. Slowed lower, his raspy

pulse, the hollow tin of belly, and blisters

of the sin of not having enough pull

at my heels, ramshackle my logic

of how it should be. With care

he removes papers, threadbare, from an

old leather wallet, tries to confirm

his existence to the wind of the world.

Beach Patrol stands casting shadows

and hunting: why are you here?

what are your plans?

Behind his eyes I feel what he sees;

the dominant bulls, aggressive in glory,

press the wisent to shame. Vulnerable,

unable to defend ground, he gathers

clothing, water jugs, canned goods

and shoes, places skin-thin papers

back in the wallet. I slip back

from leathered arms and face with

its gray mane of wild hair, see the wind

pass through him like prayer through god’s

ear. Sun sinks her body behind empty beach

homes, shuttered and safe, while vultures pick

at the loggerhead dead on the dune.