Bison, by Lucy Vernasco

I am a bison. My kin spreads over vast grasslands, feasting upon the plains. We gentle giants trudged over endless terrain, leading migration, distributing our remains. Our waste meant we existed. Our humps over hills, bouncing matted coats. We carried our horns, our crowns, our royal lineage. When one was lost, he was honored fully. We could see, hear, and smell every part respected. We could see the smoke rise from the triangular formations in the distance. Witnessed our brother’s spirit flee to higher lands. The sounds became different. Now of calls we had never heard before, animals we had never encountered. We were pushed aside by a so-called civilized society. We were rusted teakettles at a bottom of a Goodwill donation box. Our remnants had been washed away by weather, replaced by the iron tracks. How can mass slaughterers call themselves civil? We were followed by our friends, followed by coal smoke, pushed to corners. Bang. Bang, bang. They gave us a label that says saved. They say fences keep us alive.  They haven’t been in fenced-in playpens since they were five years old.