Herd The Buffalo Maddie Figas

Herd the Buffalo Maddie Figas

Herd the Buffalo Maddie Figas The Literary Arts Department Pittsburgh CAPA 6-12, A Creative and Performing Arts Magnet 
CopyrightŠ2019 Pittsburgh CAPA 6-12, A Creative and Performing Arts Magnet Pittsburgh, PA The copyright to the individual pieces remains the property of each individual. Reproduction in any form by any means without specific written permission from the individual is prohibited. For copies or inquiries: Pittsburgh CAPA 6-12 Literary Arts Department Mara Cregan 111 Ninth Street Pittsburgh, PA 15222 mcregan1@pghschools.org Ms. Melissa A. Pearlman, Principal
For Yellowstone National Park

Table of Contents 1. Deconstructing 2. Too Thin 3. Pair of Brother 4. King of Dares 5. 30 Things You Didn’t Know While in Yellowstone 6. Precautionary 7. Steal the Wild 8. Old Faithful 9. No Power to Bite
Deconstructing After Joni Mitchell, “Both Sides Now”
I traced the jawbone of a buffalo and stood so close to an elk, I could see its fleas. And on the shores of Snake River, the skins of salmon cooked in the open sun.
At home, I used to coat my granite in chemical, pray the hungry ants didn't find a home in the belly of my cantaloupes. I’d seal myself in with plaster. Nothing entering without knocking.
I remember the way she looked at me when I returned, unshaven and peeling scabs from my shins. I could tell she wanted to hose the bare sun from my cheekbones. To bottle the air I’d brought in with me, and take it to the edge of the city where she could let it go. She left when I asked her to follow me back to Wyoming. Parceled and packaged until her drawers were hollow. The thing was, she didn’t throw anything away, there was nothing left behind on her nightstand because she folded it all so tight. She made it all so small that the photo albums and hair curlers could fit into a single milk carton. I’m guilty because that’s what I wanted to do when I got off the plane in Salt Lake. To peel back the mountainside and swallow the river. Pluck the morning sun from the valley and herd the buffalo. But it’s too long, too high and wide. You can’t seal it in plaster or slip it in your carryon.
My last day there, I hiked through Hayden Valley with nothing but my clothes. The wind broke through my shirt and rocked me. It lifted my legs and pulled me further from the gravel roads. I was nothing but a breeze.
I leave the windows open. I knocked their screens down, they’re decomposing in the backyard. The front door is unscrewed from the hinges and sitting damp in my living room. From far away, my house looks like a face with empty eyes and broken teeth. Like a jack-o-lantern with no candle. And it rains now, in the kitchen, from the unplastered ceiling fractures. The ants are buried in all of my fruits. The foundation is crumbling. I’m deconstructing.
Sometimes, I dream I’m standing in my overgrown house. To my left is a black bear and I can see he’s come here to live too. He breathes heavy. I reach down and touch his ears, but hear the crack of a gun. Shoot me, I say, not him. She never listens.
Too Thin After “What I Understand Now” by Lauren Ferebee
Milly died there last night, a mile deep into woods, on the skirts of a hiking trail. She died under the moon and loose pine needles. It was the two of us until the trees cracked and branched crash landed. Just the two of us until it wasn’t. I didn't see her die, but I saw her the night after. She visited my motel room, drenched in the glow of early morning sun. I didn’t know how she found me; I’d driven as far from Yellowstone as my tank of gas took me. But she was there, her skin still flushed pink, not like any corpse I’d seen. “How’d you find me?” I asked, my breath heavy and tired. She didn’t answer, her eyes showed no registration. I began to wonder if you could speak, or if her vocal cords were shattered by the cold. But there were no twigs caught in her hair, no leaves pressed to her skin. I would’ve thought she was alive if it weren’t for the way she stood, like the way they teach you in kindergarten, like there’s a string pulling you up by your scalp. That’s what she looked like, a stiff puppet with bones broken into perfect lines. When Milly was still alive, and when we were hiking, she told me about her weekly flights from Vancouver to D.C. How juggling a dying mom and demanding career was waring her so thin that her hair was falling out, and her hands were cracking. “I want to break my body open,” she said, “and replace it with machines.” We walked deeper, hoping that somehow, the trail would lead back to our parked car. “Do you understand?” she asked. I didn’t then.
A Pair of Brothers In a beautiful forest with many geysers and canyons, two brothers set up a tent for the night. They were on their way to another land to visit their father who had taken ill. The brothers had been traveling for quite some time and were happy to find a place to rest. They decided upon a barren site, under many old willows and near a stream, stocked full of rainbow-scaled fish. “Here,” the first brother said, handing the other branches for the tent. The other brother planted them into the soft ground and made a foundation, later placing cloth over the top so that rain wouldn’t get in. By the time the sun sank and the moon reached high above them, the two brothers were fast asleep in their new shelters. The first brother woke to the sound of a chipping sparrow singing high on a tree above him. He shook the other brother until he woke up. Together, they set off to hunt for eggs and berries. “Look at this bush,” the second brother said, “the berries are so large and plump.” “And over here too,” the first brother said, pointing to the woods beyond them, “there is more fruit than we can pick.” So, the brothers scavenged until their stomachs were full and their backs sore from bending over. The sun left once more and the brothers, too tired from their meals, laughed at their purple mouths and went to bed. When the brothers awoke, they spotted a large buffalo drinking from the stream. “How wonderful,” the brothers whispered, “we’ll have meat for days.” Very carefully, they removed the bows from their packs. They both shot the beast with four
arrows, and, with a growl, it fell to its knees. That night, the brothers built a fire for their meat. “This wood burns so easily,” one said to the other, and they made the fire so large that the tree’s branches turned to ash. When they woke on the third morning, the first brother complained, “My back hurts from laying on the hard ground.” The other responded, “Then we will build a bed.” Together, the two brothers sawed down a tree so large it touched the clouds. It fell with a thud, and a family of squirrels skittered away. They used the tree to build two frames. The second brother plucked bird’s feathers to make the mattresses. Later that night, as they cooked their meat, the first brother asked the second, “Shouldn’t we return to our journey? Father must think something happened to us.” The second brother thought for a moment and then said, “We have no reason to leave. The berries are ripe, the meat is good, and there is so much wood. All of this is ours to take.” The second brother continued, “Father would be ashamed if his sons left a place as valuable as this.” The first brother agreed, and as the moon rose, they slept soundly to the music of the forest. It had been nearly a seven mornings since the pair of brothers first arrived. They’d built two beds and burned many fires, but that evening, clouds swallowed the sun and dropped water onto their campsite. It rained so hard that mud spilled into the creek and left the brother’s mattresses sopping. They waited under a willow until the sun returned and covered the forest with fresh, dry dirt.
“Everything is ruined,” the first brother said, “let’s keep moving. Maybe we can still find father.” But the second brother was unconvinced. “Our mattresses will dry,” he said, “The creek will clear, and the buffalo will return. What kind of man would leave unfinished work?” And so it was agreed, the brothers would stay. They dried their belongings and cut another tall tree. Together, they built a house from wood, and inside that house was a great fireplace, stocked with kindling. “What a beautiful home,” the first brother said, admiring the sturdiness of the structure. “We should build another,” said the second brother. So, they kept cutting the wood and picking the berries. They chopped and plucked until the forest around them grew thin and empty. “How great,” they thought, “more room for houses and mattresses and fires.” But, soon, the sun began leaving faster and growing further away. They became cold and hungry. No buffalo visited the creek, no berries hung from lush bushes. The brothers sat in their giant houses with their empty fireplaces and thought about home. “We should leave,” the first said, shivering, “there’s nothing here for us.” The second agreed. “Our work here is done,” he said. And so, they set off with no food, nothing but an empty pack. For days, they walked through the park. Although they’d brought a map, nothing seemed to make sense. Trees stood where they hadn't before. Hot springs blocked their paths. Everything was unrecognizable like the forest had regrown.
It’s said that the pair of brothers never found their way back to their father or even back to their campsite. They wandered and wandered through canyon and geyser until the ground broke open and swallowed them.
King of Dares It started as a joke, most things do, I guess. Like the tacks on Sister Ellis’s chair or the permanent marker across Mary’s forehead. Gags, double dog dares. Someone with a deep voice and disappointed frown would always say, “This time was too far,” or “You really crossed a line.” I’d just walk out of the office with one of those looks on my face. The look that says, it won’t happen again, I promise. It always happened again, always. Saint Mary’s All Boys Catholic School took a trip the week before school let out. We were going to Yellowstone, as Sister Agnes proudly announced. But no, we weren’t taking a plane. Instead, all 253 of us groggily piled on a large white bus. Slowly, we snaked across the Wyoming state line. A few of us in the back leaned heavy on the right side of the bus, trying to make it tip off the mountain. Sister Agnes pulled onto the side of the gravel road. No one could see past the tangle of cars with people hanging out their front windows. Always a sign of something cool, she said. She was right; in front of us stood a herd of grazing buffalo. They were all different sizes, some with thick fur and others with bald spots. Tommy nudged me. “Go touch one,” he said. “Yeah right,” I responded, except something in me really did want to inch closer, to see what they felt like. “I dare you.” “I dare you.” It was a stupid response, I knew that, but I had to try something.
“It’s your turn,” Tommy said, and he was right. Just a week before, he convinced Sister Ellis that the school day was over by changing the clock. Instead of arguing, I breathed in heavy and filled my lungs. I got out pretty far before anyone saw me. A few strangers in bucket hats started screaming, and Sister Agnes grabbed her rosary. The look on her face was priceless, it almost made it all worth it. I’d been too busy watching everyone’s reactions that I didn't notice how close I’d gotten. I could feel the hot breath on my arm and then everything stopped. The doctors say I could’ve died and a few kids told me that Yellowstone is putting up a picture of me as a warning to stay a safe distance away from the wildlife. The thing is, after I woke up, I was ready to have a laugh about it. To be punched on the shoulder and crowned the king of dares. But Sister Agnes was crying on the chair next to me, and Tommy’s face was so blank, I’ll never forget it.
Kings of Dares It started as a joke, most things do I guess. Gags, double dog dares. Someone with a disappointed frown would always say, “This time was too far.” I’d just walk out of the office with one of those looks on my face that says, it won’t happen again. It always happened again, always. Saint Mary’s Catholic School took a trip to Yellowstone. All 253 of us groggily piled on a white bus. Slowly, we snaked across the Wyoming state line. Sister Agnes pulled onto the side of the gravel road. No one could see past the tangle of cars. Always a sign of something cool, she said. She was right; in front of us stood a herd of grazing buffalo. Tommy nudged me. “Go touch one,” “Yeah right,” I responded, except something in me really did want to inch closer. “I dare you.” “I dare you.” “It’s your turn,” Tommy said. He was right. I breathed in heavy and filled my lungs. I got out pretty far before anyone saw me. A few strangers in bucket hats started screaming, and Sister Agnes grabbed her rosary. The look on her face was priceless, it almost made it all worth it. I’d been too busy watching everyone’s reactions that I didn't notice how close I’d gotten. I could feel the hot breath on my arm and then everything stopped. The doctors say I could’ve died and a few kids told me that Yellowstone is putting up a picture of me as a warning to stay a safe distance away from the wildlife.
The thing is, after I woke up, I was ready to have a laugh about it. To be crowned the king of dares. But Sister Agnes was crying on the chair next to me, and Tommy’s face was so blank, I’ll never forget it.
King of Dares It started as a joke, most things do I guess. Gags, double dog dares. Someone with a disappointed frown would always say, “This time was too far.” I’d just walk out of the office with one of those looks on my face that says, it won’t happen again. It always happened again, always. Saint Mary’s Catholic School took a trip to Yellowstone. All 253 of us groggily piled on a white bus.We snaked across the Wyoming state line. Sister Agnes pulled onto the side of the road. No one could see past the tangle of cars. Always a sign of something cool, she said. In front of us stood a herd of grazing buffalo. Tommy nudged me. “Go touch one,” “Yeah right,” I responded, except something in me really did want to. “I dare you.” “I dare you.” “It’s your turn,” Tommy said. He was right. I got out pretty far before anyone saw me. A few stranger started screaming, Sister Agnes grabbed her rosary. I could feel the hot breath on my arm and then everything stopped. The doctors say I could’ve died and a few kids told me that Yellowstone is putting up a picture of me as a warning to stay a safe distance away from the wildlife. After I woke up, I was ready to laugh about it. To be crowned the king of dares. But Sister Agnes was crying on the chair next to me, and Tommy’s face was so blank, I’ll never forget it.
30 Things You Didn’t Know While in Yellowstone After Matthew Burnside, “38 Things You’ll Never Know” 10. Even though she bought you the plane ticket, and drove you to the airport, and kissed you goodbye, she didn’t want you to go. 11. The car that followed you through the park on your first night was driven by a twelveyear-old boy named Simon. He snuck the keys from dad’s jean pocket and pulled up behind you. 12. During the first night, you swallowed three spiders in your sleep. Two ants crawled up your nose, and one baby moth burrowed in your ear. 13. At home, she loved the silence. She dusted and juiced and returned library books. How refreshing, she thought. 14. You never find the albino moose you searched for. 15. That metallic red beetle that you smashed under your hiking boot, the one that left green guts on your soles and smelled like citrus, it was the last of its kind. 16. Two hundred species go extinct every day. You’re responsible for three. 17. The woman wearing khakis with the tight brown ponytail wasn’t a park ranger, she was a lawyer. When you asked her where you could find moose, she had you pull out your map. She dragged her finger along Snake river until she found a random location. Right there, she said, guaranteed moose sighting. 18. The night you spent sleeping in your green rented tent, you missed a meteor shower. There were fifty-seven stars you left unwished. 19. The lady working in the Old Faithful cafeteria was your girlfriend from third grade. She’s fluent in seven languages. When she handed you a cold sandwich, you didn’t make eye contact. Neither of you would have noticed each other. 20. The man you saw hiking along snake river without a pack and only wearing shorts has been lost for two days. The only reason he didn't see you was because his glasses broke when he tripped over a blue spruce branch. You wouldn’t have turned around if he had shouted at you. 21. There are three bodies at the bottom of the mud pots you visited. Each from different families. Each from different vacations. 22. Yellowstone volcano will erupt in 2,100 years.
23. She called you seven times but hung up before it rang. 24. The morning you woke up at 4 a.m and drove to Hayden Valley to find a white moose, you left your wedding ring at the campsite. The next time it rained, a worm wrapped its body around the ring as it sunk into the dirt. 25. You didn’t notice your ring was gone for three nights. 26. The plane out of Salt Lake City right before yours was delayed for seventeen hours. All of the passengers ate Thanksgiving dinner in a hotel lobby. The turkey came from a can and the potatoes skin was molded. They all complained until they saw the news that night. 27. The pediatrician who argued her way onto your flight thought she was lucky. 28. The man at Old Faithful who complained to you about his family, and pointed to them in the gift shop was lying. He has no wife or children. And when you turned around to look for them, the geyser exploded and you missed the beginning. If you were listening hard enough, you would’ve heard him change the name of his fictional son. 29. While you were gone, she ordered the pizza and let the delivery boy inside the apartment. They drank wine and left a stain on the coffee table. When she started crying, the boy tried to leave, but she begged him to stay and listen. 30. The white moose you woke up early to find was passing through the other side of the valley. It had two calfs with it. If you’d turned around, you could’ve seen them, trudging through the marsh, with fishing line caught between its antlers. 31. If you hadn’t boarded the plane home, you’d still be married and she’d be pregnant for a fourth time. 32. You would have found her with the delivery boy. 33. You fell asleep in the airport terminal, leaned up against the glass windows. You didn’t notice the green in the sky, instead, you dreamed about her swollen stomach and small hands tugging on sweatshirt sleeves. Between boarding calls, you imagined bringing them to the geysers and buffalo. 34. The car you rented from the airport has a dead hermit crab inside of it. A six year old on her way back from the beach left its plastic cage open. The crab crawled out and found its way under the seat. Once, you braked so hard that the shell came loose from where it was wedged and rolled right next to your foot.
35. She re-downloaded her online dating apps and spent thirty seven minutes taking a picture for her profile. She thought none of them looked like her. She thought she was unrecognizable. 36. You never return home. 37. She ordered another pizza, from the same place and hoping for the same man. The delivery boy left it on the doormat and rang the bell. 38. She called a psychic that she saw advertised on the television in between the infomercials. To an empty receiver, she asked if she would marry you. A monotone recording responded, asking for a credit card number. 39. She didn’t watch the news until two days after the crash. She saw your picture on the television and put her ring down the garbage disposal.
Precautionary “You have feet and nails like every other wild animal.”- Cara Dempsey
They warn you about this. But they also warn you about eating bananas and running in the cold. There’s some study out there that’ll support the dangers of anything. You think it’s precautionary, that you’ll never end up on the morning news or with your family pictures across a newspaper. And that’s what I thought about— our smiling photo on morning television—when it stood there, panting and angered. We began hiking at twelve but by one, the kids were tired and complaining. I tried telling them the importance of persistence, about setting and achieving goals. They didn’t listen. We stopped by a thin stream and unclasped our backpacks. Mary dipped her hand in the cold water as Jackson dug his initials into the muddy sand. Mary saw it first, her eyes stuck on the grizzly cub that pawed at the water across the creek. On Yellowstone radio, they tell you that if you see a cub, there’s likely a mother nearby. They also tell you not to run. What they don't say is how it feels to be nothing but food. The mother was standing in the shadow of the trees. She moved closer. I pulled Jackson and Mary behind me. They didn’t complain or shrug my arm off of their shoulders. They could just tell. I kept their wrists tight in my hands so they couldn’t run. The mother moved further, the cub following. I could see the cloud her breath left in the cold air.
Steal the Wild After Robert Olin Butler, “Intercourse”
RyanLast night, in the stomach of our tent, we talked about our campfire dinner, and in passing I said how sometimes I’d wished we’d never met because of how wide the earth is and how many paths I’ve left un-tread; then she stopped humming, stopped trying to catch mosquitoes in the yellow of our lantern—all I could see was the earth under her fingernail, the crumble of leaves snagged in her hair, all the reasons to keep explaining; that night, she slept on the floor of the campground, a kind of mud that never dries, and we woke up at the same time because we always do, and hiked the path we were always going to; but there was a different silence that we shared, like we both understood each other’s hearts and were sharing the same grief, like we could trace exactly where it hurt until we’d both say, please stop, I’ve had enough; and then we reached the mountain top, where nothing would get more beautiful than where we stood, not the ground below or above us, right there above a deep ravine, we were empty and re-birthed; I stared into the opening like I was orbiting two planets, like I had so much power but no good to come from it— and in that moment, the way she stared so intently, she reminded me of all those wild animals who grew up in tiny house and forgot how to live on their own— the way you steal the wild from something and cant return it.
LauraI can’t carry all of it, the boulders and mud and trees springing from stone, it’s too much to swallow in one view, and he’s in the center of it, like spray paint across tile or wine stains on pages; I’ve been thinking too much, he says, I get caught up in certain silences and work conferences; it’s better than leaving your thoughts to burn fires in your bloodstream, better than wishing you could steal the words back from the air; these trees don't want to grow berries, this river doesn’t try flowing north— there’s no camouflage like, “let me take you on a trip” like, “I want us to see new things” I know what he means— means I wish you’d say no; and in this moment, I want to dive into the rapids, I want to climb down the ravine and scale the other side; what I’m trying to say is, I want to hike every corner of this park, until my footprints coat each mud geyser, so that I remember I’m really here, so that it remembers I’m still here; because this view can be seen on any postcard, and I don't want to see what the world pictures when they hear Yellowstone; more than these boulders and orange rock— what I want is to carry all of this, pick it up in one sweeping handful, a handful I can keep completely and call my own.
Old Faithful After Steve Almond, “Rumors of Myself”
I didn’t know where I was going until I got there, like the way you write without knowing what you mean to say until the end. I came in through the north entrance and followed the signs to Old Faithful. This wasn’t for any real reason, except that my thirdgrade science project was on the geyser and I wanted to see the rainbow-tinted mist. I wanted to see it explode since my replica failed to. I’d always imagined you’d have to hike to find it. That an unsuspecting family could try a short cut on their route and find themselves on the shore of a great geyser. They’d see the water push up into the clouds and feel the stone floor rumble. All on accident. But the truth is, there’s a parking lot right next to Old Faithful, you could watch it burst from the passenger seat window. And there’s a cafeteria to the right of it. The walls are made of glass so you can watch everything while eating a buffalo burger. There’s a clock there too, it’s big with red neon numbers and counts down the seconds until the explosion. As soon as I pulled up and saw the mounds of tourists spilling out of bus doors, I decided to drive somewhere else. I went straight past the big tourist spots like overlooks and ramps leading you across hot springs. Past the jumble of cars pulled onto the roadside, peering through binoculars at a black bear. I finally got off on a side road that opened up into a forest. The sun was still high, but the leaves were heavy enough to drape the trail in darkness. No one else was around, and I was sure if I got far enough inside nature, I could imagine a world where
no one existed. And now, I think that’s what I was trying to do, be the only person. That’s what I mean to say.
No Power To Bite
I find the moose in Lamar Valley, knee deep in marsh. He’s on his side. His breath strained like his inhale’s caught early. And with each exhale, more blood clouds the marsh water, more drains from the two holes in his chest. The moose doesn’t move when I walk close and press my hand to his sopping fur. I know this is selfish, the way I come with no promise of relief, with empty hands and no gun. How scared he is to see me. I try believing I have the power to help anything. But his eyes grow wider and his eyelids slow in rhythm. Lighter until they stop.
I remember when I was a child in Yellowstone, in the backseat of my parents truck where the sunroof could open its jaws so wide that the light from the stars spilled in. And the swarms of nameless insects that hung in the air like mobiles. They had no power to bite until I flipped through my father’s field journal and found they were laced with venom stingers.
When the moose dies, I imagine the scene in a glass box in a museum. I’m just paint on plastic, my fake hand on his gelled fur. And he’s stuffed, but on his right thigh, foam is spilling out. School kids watch us and point at the frog eggs near the surface of the glass stream. Unidentified insects hang from clear wire. We’re stretched so thin, but the glass box is brimming with plastic, almost overfilling.