The Prison
by Joanna Johnson
As the sun dips behind the mountain,
A brilliant purple haze dusts the horizon.
The cool breeze quietly floats through the country
Gently hitting the mountainsides, flying blindly.
The sparrow in the tree sings a sweet song.
It perches on the branch, elevated in the cool fresh air.
The branch shakes each time the wind passes
Innocently through the trees.
A mother deer curls up in her cave,
With a fawn resting at her breast.
The mother raps her legs around her baby.
It sighs comfortably as its eyes slowly close.
* * *
The machines of man
Spouting carbon monoxide,
Sulfur dioxide,
Nitrogen oxides.
They move easily and efficiently,
Smoothly along the perfectly furnished roads,
Unaware of everything,
Driving blindly.
Their gasoline combusts in their engines.
Clouds escape from their prisons.
They roam free,
Falling on the first sign of life.
Suddenly, it appears from overhead.
Shapeless, but unchanging,
Cold and mysterious,
A dark shadow falls over the forest.
The troposphere is covered
By dank clouds of mist.
They are rooted in steam stacks,
Factories and engines.
The clouds sweep over the forest.
Too full of poison, they burst,
Settling on their unsuspecting victims.
They cower in fear.
The mother deer awakens and abandons her smog-filled cave.
She hunts for shelter.
She runs along the forest floor,
Dodging broken twigs and dying plants lying in her path.
Her fawn, not yet strong enough,
His lanky legs collapse under his frail body.
He falls.
The ground trembles under him.
Quickly,
Darkness descends.
The cloud engulfs the fawn.
He can no longer be seen.
His body shakes violently under the pollution.
He struggles to rise.
His legs push at the dried ground,
The soil cracking under his hoofs.
Desperately trying to move,
He is unsuccessful.
Drained, the fawn is still.
He takes a long forcing breath.
Wheezing and coughing,
His lungs slowly absorb the cloud.
* * *
All alone in the forest,
The mother deer stops at a new cave.
Seemingly out of danger now,
She waits,
Silently.
Not a living plant in sight,
Not a single bird perched on the tree branch,
Singing a demulcent song,
Not a fawn, resting by his mother's side.
(Editor's Note: The poet is a junior at The Calhoun School in New York City and the daughter of Harmer Johnson, who wrote about his tour of the Nevada Test Site for our Winter 1990 issue.)
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