Poem
Mona Arshi
The Lion
The Lion
The Lion
How unstable and old he is now.Lion, like God, has snacks sent up
by means of a pulley. Although
you can never master the deep language
of Lion, I am made dumb by the rough
stroke of his tongue upon mine.
Nowadays I make allowances. We lie
together and I hear the crackle of his bones
and when I bring myself to open my eyes
he weeps, his pupils resembling dark
embroidered felt circles. Sometimes
I think all I am is a comfort blanket for his
arthritic mouth. But many evenings he’ll sit
twisted behind the drapery solving my
vulgar fractions with nothing but his claws.
Lion and I break bread; I tend to his mane and
he sets a thousand scented fuses under my skin.
He starts undressing me under the sweetening stars.
Please girl, he mews; this might be the last time
I will see how the thin light enters you.
© 2015, Mona Arshi
From: Small Hands
Publisher: Liverpool University Press, Liverpool
From: Small Hands
Publisher: Liverpool University Press, Liverpool
Mona Arshi
(United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, 1970)
Mona Arshi began writing poetry in 2008, after working as a human rights lawyer for Liberty, on high profile judicial review cases. She has spoken of how poetry for her is ‘the polar opposite of writing in a rule-bound legal discourse. Writing poetry involves forging space for creative accidents to emerge. Suspending intentionality means one submits to not knowing where poetry comes from, break...
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Poems of Mona Arshi
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The Lion
How unstable and old he is now.Lion, like God, has snacks sent up
by means of a pulley. Although
you can never master the deep language
of Lion, I am made dumb by the rough
stroke of his tongue upon mine.
Nowadays I make allowances. We lie
together and I hear the crackle of his bones
and when I bring myself to open my eyes
he weeps, his pupils resembling dark
embroidered felt circles. Sometimes
I think all I am is a comfort blanket for his
arthritic mouth. But many evenings he’ll sit
twisted behind the drapery solving my
vulgar fractions with nothing but his claws.
Lion and I break bread; I tend to his mane and
he sets a thousand scented fuses under my skin.
He starts undressing me under the sweetening stars.
Please girl, he mews; this might be the last time
I will see how the thin light enters you.
From: Small Hands
The Lion
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