Meerkats in my View

Little zoo northwest of Prague reminds me

of the least of these: the lonesome coda

at the end of John: “take care of my sheep.”

There were llamas at this zoo, and loads of

lemurs open-eyed; meerkats all upright,

sniffing the careless karakals nearby.

I dreamt of Dad again the other night,

our twice-a-year reunion since he died,

and what he said this time I will record:

‘Glory, hallelujah,’ he hugged me close,

‘And one more time tomorrow.’  All I’ve stored

in twenty-five years is a staunch repose

to ‘take care of my sheep.’ Back then, Bejou,

the pastor stole my fire and eulogy

on John 12:24. I thought of you,

Dad, on the Saturday night you finally

put this daunting question on me: “Simon

son of John, do you truly love me more

than these?” You asked not for yourself, your own

life leaving as we spake, but not before

we count the least of these: “You know all things;

you know I love you.” “Feed my sheep.” It hurt

to hear and say. And yet that gospel rings

harmonious today. The little yurt

in the zoo northwest of Prague holds more than

mere lemurs. They scamper fantasies of

jungle limbs that cannot be, perhaps to plan

a modest family. Whatever love

disseminates is what the species may

believe to be their tenderhook, their creed.

“Simon son of John,” I echoed that day,

“do you truly”—gulping any air I need—

“love me” (don’t say) “more than these?” I don’t

know what I’m doing, meerkats in my view,

the good folks of Bejou, like me, won’t

begrudge such scrutiny…. Jesus, will you?