The Fragility of Civilization
The Moose
Emily Browning
“She reminded us. She was the ocean wearing a fur suit.”
— John Steffler, “That Night We Were Ravenous”
The moose is a moose until
it rolls around like marbles in your mouth and
decides it is the dying forests, the corruption of human nature.
It is dripping in pine needles, velvet body sticking
to the ribs of the atmosphere.
The moose is a moose until
it is not a sauntering slab of muscles
but a constellation that guides the stars and
drags the universe forward in time with its massive jaw.
It is the face in the moon, calling
to the tides for answers, demanding the wind.
The moose is a moose until
it is standing in the middle of the road,
eyes reflecting your own and
antlers refracting the crusty glow of the headlights that suddenly
seem so brittle. It holds you
and rolls you around
like a marble in its mouth,
decides to lift its primordial hoof and stamp
across the highway
just as the roof of your car grazes
its ethereal underbelly.
