Renee Emerson

The Panther


A panther stalked the scrub woods
of Hickory Withe, Tennessee;
a shadow, specter, half-truth
or complete lie, like most
of what my father ever told me.

I never saw it up high in tree limbs,
on porches, prowling ditches,
down on Donelson Drive at dusk
(he swears—right over his car).

What danger in it anyway, a beast
so foreign to our settled squares
of farm and field as to be Dragon,
kraken, Grendel, lurking
in the darkest places outside our home.
My father, sometimes a good father,
did not want his daughters to roam.