In our geography books
Africa was the Dark Continent,
the center of the map unmarked.
Egypt, a latch to push
and the continent would open,
a jewel box with a secret door
against the persuasion of the Nile.
Explorers stalked undiscovered landscapes,
a plant to baptize, a tribe to civilize,
some shaded valley where secrets
quavered deadly as a stone age spear,
where ancient bones dissolved themselves
into the bedrock at peace with time.
Tarzan was the keeper,
Frank Buck, the ruler of the kingdom,
who brought ‘em back alive,
lions tame as housecats,
elephants posed on upturned drums,
an aphrodisiac, an ashtray,
a rug, a rich woman’s coat.
Since the day I opened
that geography book
half the species in the world
have disappeared.