mint farm
were it not for the emissions of steam
& gnashing of metal pincers, the hushed
discharges of the trains hauling timber,
or the trucks’ trundling tones behind the trees
we could mistake this place for peaceful.
near the old log pits allowed to reform into ponds
ringed by horsetail fronds, birch, and cottonwoods
we walk our dogs. the signs say this is protected
wetland, tho fresh truck treads inhabit the path
often as do food wrappers and other human
leavings, humble offerings from the people
of our century to no one specific. we divert
our eyes and the dogs from camps
of those who pass thru & leave tents,
sometimes, or coolers and tarps. our animals
are more interested in the potential for prey;
they harass nutria or chase ducks from nests.
a deer carcass will occasionally catch their interest:
they’ll tear into the soft tissue of the belly or neck,
rip bones through hollows bigger predators have rent
in the loose skin until we scatter them. i am mystified
by the impulse to eat something rotten, but understand the innate
sense of scarcity that inspires such barbarity. who knows
from birth how the blank slate we make of earth—
& that it makes of us—necessitates so much be erased?
today we were graced with a massacre: a raccoon relieved
a duck of her heart in the night, dragged her eggs up the bank
& delicately drained each one. if i’d found them first, they’d have been
sacrosanct. still—all will be forgiven. the paper mill. those discarded
cigarette butts. even the mosquitoes. even smoke on the horizon.
Garnet Juniper Bennet is a Queer/trans writer birthed & corrupted in the American high desert who now practices their craft from the Pacific Northwest. A graduate of the MFA program in creative writing at the University of Nevada, Reno, their work has appeared or is forthcoming in publications such as Rattle, Glassworks, Salamander, Waxwing, Poet Lore, Ninth Letter, Salt Hill, & Pidgeonholes, and has received nominations for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes.
