Tiger
Tiger Look of a wren, not dead yet, I pick up to save from the cats, look I recognize as my Dad’s after they’ve taken his glasses and teeth, what world was he leaving me unbequeathed, look of a thing unresigned, about to be eaten, what question am I still too late asking? And because I know no one will be consoled or absolved or cured, blossoms fall upon me from drenched trees in recompense. Aqueous nimbus blazing the street, azure uncouplings of clouds and whatever survives thinks it’s flower forever, flame forever jackknifing through the dispersed ions of William Blake. Today, there are tigers everywhere, even the waitress who brings the large juice carries a punctured heart, even the carpet is a tongue. Apparently none of us are maimed enough, one body a permanent kneel, another a boat, red leak in its chest, one this wrecked lacewing, eyes flecked from some pulverized jewel, antenna so long, so attenuated, what vibration, what pheromone won’t drive each crazy with the need to be loved, to be eaten? At what point did I leave 10 those crowded rooms, what am I hunting for? One door won’t open, one opens on more doors, one upon fire gushing a plasmic light as if from some sliced-open orange because only so much can be absorbed, converted into sugars. Mist staggers over the grass like the spirit over the whole corporeal mess those first hesitant seconds after death, jamming the radio signals, hey-na, sha-la while the orderlies lean on their brooms. If the knife is in you, it may be best not to pull it out. Perhaps if I just carried you into the sea. I know someone could make a great weapon of me if only I was thrown hard enough. 11 ...
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