The little one has been twitching
all night; his mother unmoving, one giant limb
over her face, as if to shield her from the camera,
the unwinking eye of human nosiness: the world
is watching the pandas sleep in Washington DC,
and despite my sadness for zoo animals, so am I.
The danger scientists tell us is in anthropomorphizing animals,
that they don’t feel as we feel, merely sentient, content with
a straw-lined pen, enough rocks and bamboo
to make it look like China.
And then in a fit of insomnia, I see the screen:
the mother panda nursing her cub,
and afterward he, like I, too restless to lie still,
and I catch my breath as I watch
her pick him up in her arms
and rock him to sleep.

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