Rhino poaching has become such a crisis that we were asked not to post photos of rhinos to social media. In the end we saw white rhinos in Botswana, Zambia, South Africa, and eSwatini, so I believe this poem + photo should be sufficiently generic as to not further endanger any individual rhinos. Although we were on the lookout for black rhinos throughout our time in Africa, we never saw any.
things not to talk about
I cannot say where we saw the rhinos.
That is, rhino or rhinos.
(If they were seen,
I cannot divulge their number.)
I am not able to report
on their sad, sleepy eyes.
How their triceratops-type bulk
only accentuated their vulnerability.
How their one thought was napping,
not curing cancer,
not battling,
not staying alive.
I couldn’t say what the calf thought of the situation, either.
(That is, if there was a calf,
which, of course,
I cannot confirm.)
I cannot say what our two boys felt
on seeing them
(if that happened)
and being told
(hypothetically)
that their own children never will.
Anything that I might say
could of course be used
to cut them down
and grind them up –
a fate much worse than silence.
Also, I cannot say how,
in our party of six,
in tents cheek by jowl,
I am the only one
who heard a choir singing
for one hour last night.
It was as magical as the bushbabies
we find watching us each dusk,
then springing through the air
like implausible puppets.
As improbable as sighting a pack of wild dogs
with pups
or an entire family of rhinos lazing in the sun.
Finally, I refuse to speculate as to whether
the crying baby next door will indeed
draw a leopard –
a ghost of good manners
possibly here, or, then again, not.
On this day I wouldn’t be surprised if
it was the ancestors themselves singing last night,
saying sleep well,
who knows what tomorrow may bring.
