Animal Handler by Christine Hemp At night when the animal handler takes off his clothes he smells of lions' fur and zebra breath. He washes his hands and the water curves around them like the tails of the horses who canter round and round the ring for him every day. He can still feel the paw of the panda who dances with chairs and tables as if he were born to balance. The animals know that one gesture, one word, can free them from the chaos of movement without form. When he is alone in the dark, the animal handler whispers, waiting to hear a hoofbeat. She stamps and he wakes. He calls to her. His eyes are shadows, blades of grass. He watches her hocks, the swish of her yellow mane, the arc of everything coming. His flanks shine. Now he is moving with the waves of her tail and withers. The wind whirls around the curtains. He wants her to leap through his rings of fire. But he stops. The plaintive scream of the elephant dam. The bear's low rumble. Softly he strokes the shapely ear; he kisses the eyelid, and pulls on his clothes that smell of hay and tiger dung. Panthers and tapirs are calling him out of his bed. He knows the whites of their eyes are like moons in the night.   home · resume · recent publications · schedule · technical writing · course offerings list of clients · connecting chord · programs ·  poetry pages · bardic performances · contact Christine Hemp P.O. Box 674 Port Townsend, WA 98368 tel: 360-385-9005