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Tasmanian Tiger
Hope’s keen nose smells itself. A muzzle
chewing at its own groin.
Undisturbed by visibility
since these many years.
If a creature
can be a site, a space, unoccupied
space.
Hope resisted taxonomy—resisted
the specimen photograph. Its distinctives
should remain indistinct else
extinct. Stripes on its haunches.
A presence resorbed to its own
abdominal pouch. Gestating absence.
Hope believes that what doesn’t exist
never did. Hope emulated
safety in despair, a rigid tail
trailing out behind it.
Straying as in.
As in stray.
Hope’s pelt fitted tight to its hips, a presence
that replaces the original.
To be true is to be overheard, to figure
hope as a presence no one can verify.
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