Bright Burning

The lunatic tiger circles its cell

while the lady white as sun-kissed shells

adjusts her knee. Both wait, for you, for me.

What stalks behind curtains

petrifies me: rustling rats

that rancor my naps.

Love is a fickle prison

gnawing frantic its bars

and the lipsticked lady's

so lovely a game

I think of the tiger

and am instantly tamed.

Who am I am but a stubbled guard,

sucking hard on a stale cigarette,

fouling an uncaring animal's lair

  and perfect perfumed neck and hair?

Of course there's no question

the jaws will chomp down:

flailing arms fetch only false crowns.

You did actually say,

if not the dame,

her anatomical cousin.

And here I'd forgotten

you'd already

chosen.

Copyright Julie K. Shavin 2008