Judith Skillman Those Bleeding Hearts Graphic: "Falcon" ~ woodcut by Billy Childish Well, naturally they would have to go before the others. Not after the lion, chimpanzee, zebra, or giraffe. Certainly not post-monkey and dog gangs roaming the streets of an exiled city. You could go so far as to say endangerment would be endemic to a species whose heart was located by a red mark suspiciously like blood, or by the sort of folk who are overly sympathetic to lost causes— those island birds, liberals, and ground doves. They would have to be killed off. If not by the exact spot at which to take aim with a shotgun, then by their own inbred ability to ooze sap, juice, and pink heart-shaped flowers. Their pilfering predicated on a tendency to fall victim to extortion. To be trimmed, to run together, to seep  through the covers, as in, stain. Even to feel grief, pain, or other equally splashy stubs of emotion that might be later expanded upon follows too close upon the heels of another animal—sentimentality. What about the vivid red color splashed across white breasts? This is no time to wax precious about their alleged disappearance. We have heard rumors of sightings. These bits of gossip and bleeps have not been recorded with any certainty. Why would anyone want to give away the location of that which lies outside the margin, in the peaceable kingdom beyond pastoral boundaries.

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