Dawn McGuire

Crossing Conditions

I saw a half-ton bull moose nibbling a tree by the neon Moose 
Crossing sign. By the lake, I saw a beaver-cleaved birch. By the 
highway towards Casper, fang marks of oil rigs, gray scrabble 
surround. Last night I dreamed of my old lover. He was still 
angry, he gave me back my clothes. I dream of him rarely now. 
Was it the huge moose with sensitive lips, millions of axons 
selecting the exact soft green of his need? Or was it the blind 
perseverent penetration of the rig? 

I think the birch. Nearly chewed in two, bent to breaking, an 
inch of a pith-bridge still between the parts. One last bite, a 
push, a glide to the dam. I imagine my lover with his Tom's 
Toothpaste teeth and he's laughing until he's crying. I imagine 
his sweet, delirious love unembittered. I dream of being 
undamned. I wake up and settle for usefulness. The steady v 
of the beaver's wake as it glides across the current towards 
the work to be done.