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.