By ARACELIS GIRMAY THIRD ESTRANGEMENT, REMEMBERING JONATHAN FERRELL Today I left my house to talk about love with my girl, but already, her head in the news, so I began the walk back, through the fog. To my right, over my shoulder, I heard the hunter whistling to his dogs. He was near. In the fog’s white heart, I worried for my legs, their arms, all of us brown & bare, without oranges, or flags. I will be mistaken, I thought, for another animal, one it is legal to kill. A bear or boar. & none of my noises distinctly human. Bear me. Bore me. My animal breaths & words. At the end of the road, someone’s mother is playing at the accordion again. A stack of cars, junked, on the back of a truck. Her third hand waves to me, in the old Italian way of waving, which looks like “goodbye” but also like “come.” Of the eight directions, I cannot tell which is safest. Only that, somehow, I would go on & on if up to me. Then the ground on which to lay my body down, following its flatness. 110 When their hands are upon, I know I am mere story, a hornless curiosity bleeding out to space the space of me that was secret even to me. I say my words, but they, to them, are nothingspeaking, so stand, so stagger, stagger to show the humanness of my plea, but I am bucking in moonlight to the emptying clip. Of my dance away from the gunning you would say the same manies: Urgency. Athleticism. Grace: the muscles, vexed, in strain & falling. I turn my face & try to rid my head of knowledges. Instead long for the shape of the cypress, but a consequence is thinning me. I am a farness now, & the moon’s black marias.