The Zoo
For Marianne Moore

The Andean condor has been given a cow femur. Bits of meat cling to the blood-streaked bone. So far the condor is ignoring his treat. Flies are not. The condor’s dark body feathers and snow-white neck ruff make him look clerical. His head resembles a fistful of viscera turning to jerky. The femur lies on a patch of grass at the front of the cage, so centrally placed it seems the focus of the exhibit rather than that huge carrion snacker, who remains hunched in the background, puzzling over important spiritual questions.

For some of us, zoos serve the purposes of church. All we know of miracles is housed here. Zoos are also centers of refuge and exile. A rare homeless woman in a dirty muumuu wanders the zoo. She and I seem to be the only grownups here today wearing pink. This is not a good sign. How did she get in? Did she sneak? Admission is a steep $10 for adults. She talks to herself in a gentle undertone, as though reasoning with someone she likes. Every ten steps or so she curtseys and bows her head to some unseen (at least by most of the rest of us) creature(s) or deity(s).

An extravagantly patterned jaguar flips his tail tip back and forth and paces on huge padded feet. His eyes are luminous gold. His breathing is loud and shallow. A woman holds a baby up so it can see the frustrated cat. The baby is not looking at the cat at all, but twisting its head to stare, zombie like, at gawking members of its own species. The jaguar’s ragged panting stops. It draws in its tongue and freezes. Alert to the infant’s gurglings, the jaguar sniffs. You can almost make out a thought balloon suspended over the cat’s head with some feline equivalent to LUNCH! spelled out in claw-raked letters there. Despite barriers of metal pipe railing and hefty cage mesh, it’s nerve-wracking to watch mom brandish her bite sized baby, perhaps most so for the predator. When the infant’s back in its frilly pram, we bystanders breathe easier. The cat goes back to pacing and praying.

You are on the receiving end of a whole different vibe from tribes of zoo-visiting families and khaki uniformed staff if you are a middle aged adult tootling through the zoo alone, mumbling to yourself and taking notes, versus if you are the same disheveled, out of breath person hefting a cute 2 year old who’s stuffing goldfish crackers into his rosy little mouth. Visiting the zoo with a kid confers legitimacy. Too bad I can’t rent one at the gift shop.