The Food Chain
White fluff drifts midair. A mound of goose-down at my feet
—enough to fill two kingsized pillows and a comforter.
Fierce fighters, six foot wingspans. No lone coyote
could take down a full-grown goose, eat the carcass whole.
I knew the pair of Canadas that nested here. Vigilant parents,
they nudged their brood—seven fuzz balls, winnowed to four
half-fledged long-necked goslings—into the water when I came too near.
The killers left no scraps—flensed thigh bone, iron beak,
scaly leg, leathery foot armed with grappling hooks.
Only this billowing mound— a tattered wedding gown
dumped on the ground. In time south winds shredded it,
left gauzy scraps snagged on brown grass; uncovered
a gray wingtip, flight feathers splayed like frantic fingers,
purple bloodstains, blackened bits of sunbaked flesh.
Decades ago I became vegetarian, but I recall
how pregnancy turned me into a voracious carnivore,
how I claimed my place at the top of the food chain, taught
my babies to grasp a juicy chicken leg with tiny fingers,
gnaw tender meat with new front teeth. I picture a litter
of suckling coyote pups—eyes glued shut, pink bellies plump,
gooseflesh morphing into rich milk,
quill and claw into silky fur, prey into predator.
When I pass this place on my daily walk
I’ll think of a wedding gown dumped on the ground.
.
Cave People
Inside Sandia Cave’s womb-dark hollow
—ceiling blackened by cook-fires
ten thousand years old—I imagine ancestors
crouched elbow to elbow, feeding embers
through frigid nights. When wolf-howls pierce
the blackest hour, do they pray, bargain with fickle gods?
What bedtime stories do they tell their children
to keep night-terrors at bay?
My fingertips probe a wall as if to feel some trace
of their presence. I try to picture myself
spread-eagled, nose-to-cliff, scurrying crab-wise
toward the noisy creek one hundred feet below.
I would have been a maker of useful things—
yucca baskets, stone tools—spent my days chipping
chunks of quartz into perfectly shaped spearpoints,
knives sharp enough to butcher mastodons.
But could I stay focused,
knowing razor-fanged cats skulked
in overhead branches, giant bears rose
on hind legs to scent human flesh?
My son laments the shambles his son will inherit.
I remind him, cave people’s offspring learned to channel
scarce water, farm barren lands, follow heaven’s roadmap,
build stone cities with keen minds and callused hands.
Whoever survives this world we’ve made—
warring tribes, violent weather, fire and flood
—might welcome bedtime stories
about brave people who lived in caves.
© Johanna DeMay
Johanna DeMay was born in the US and raised in Mexico City. She writes to bridge the gap between her worlds. Lifelong poet, retired professional potter, volunteer ESL tutor, she helps new residents prepare for their citizenship exams. Her poems have appeared in anthologies and journals in print and online. In 2022 her first poetry collection, Waypoints, was published by Finishing Line Press. Kelsay Books will release her new collection, All Diaspora’s Children, in 2025
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