My mother plopped us children down
in front of the television show Rescue 911.

We learned about all sorts of safety practices
with Captain William Shatner-Kirk.
One particular favorite episode
was on alligator danger.

They began selling T-shirts
with alligator warnings to the tourists.
We did not know what tourist meant
or that alligators didn’t live
in all fifty states.

We told our mother we needed the shirts
and proceeded to alligator-hunt our property.
No bush un-poked,
no tall grass without a rock thrown in
as we ran backwards from it.

Our mission was clear:
secure the perimeter.

Our mother let us have our terror
and our fun
until she was finished with the house chores.

Then she told us:
there aren’t any alligators around here.

No one could explain
the genuine disappointment in our chests
to not need to be alligator-vigilant.

I think we just really wanted
to see the mighty dinosaurs
if there was a chance—
but keep the warning
not to get too near
or unable to run away fast.

Wonder, fear, and excitement
were all the same feeling then.

The world’s possibility
shrunk a little
until we learned
we just needed to travel to Louisiana
to get it back.

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