The morning’s arm of light sweeps the table
of painted knights & china & papers,
sending everything that isn’t you or I
to the floor. Walls into windows, a door
into adore. March files out, & we are
risen, but not quite yet—beasts in bed,
we raise our heads only to admire
the valleys in our pillows. This, our veldt,
a canvas called The Breaking of the Fast.
We are in like a, out like a. We are
lions lying (or is it laying?), wearing
human faces, my mane undone by your
nuzzling. In your ear, I whisper & roar.
You ask for coffee, & the tall grass trembles.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 2.
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