wildscape. literary journal

This Definition of Danger Breaks My Heart
by Deirdre Garr Johns

The man making laps at the park 
stops and points to the bend.

“Alligator.”

There — on dirt, the grass sloughed off
by the scales of his underbelly.

“El grande, the big one,” the man says.

His syllables unwind like the line of a kite.
I hold fast.

The alligator won’t bother you, 
unless you bother it, he says, grinning.

The wrinkles on his sun-battered face
erupt into ravines. 

Do you live here? he asks 
and does not wait
for my response 
before telling me
he’s been here 
for twenty years. 

His accent and his English 
mingle — melodic. 

We make small talk,
mostly about el grande. 

Sometimes his snout points 
toward the trail, 
like a compass needle set on its next victim, 
whom I imagine to be 
the Chihuahua, Shih Tzu, or Yorkie
picked up by an owner’s arm,
unwilling to tempt fate. 

Some days, el grande is nowhere in sight. 

Manuel flags me down. 
Maybe it move to another lake?
Maybe is hiding?
Maybe new territory? 

Instead, he tells me about his brother
who was a boxer back home in Mexico, 
or the money he sends home 
for his niece who needs medicine,
or the pollen on his work clothes.

Tomorrow, Manuel is not around. 
The next day and the day after — 
nowhere to be found.

A lump in my throat rises. 

Reports of ICE removing dangerous illegals 
across the country and in my backyard surge, 
their rough hands and weapons and masks 
all part of the great purge
of people with accents 
and skin colors richer than vanilla.

Mistaken for danger.

Manuel does not return. 

These afternoons of late dwindle, the sun 
muddled at dusk.

I keep my distance from el grande —
its mouth gaping, ready to swallow the world —
and wish I could do the same, 
but I am left to keep this vigil. 

about the author // Deirdre Garr Johns