My Tiger

"Sociopaths do not feel empathy, and they do not fear risk. They are charismatic, but essentially empty. Do not fall into them."  --Delaur, 2006


Killing the fearless tiger is a cheap thing to do.
Silly men in pith helmets, 
Common as voles,
Do it in the early morning, then go home for kippers and tea.



Extinguished tigers balance on stools in the circus ring.
Petty parolees and ex-bartenders put on boots, then go cow them with frayed whips,
And commands in dialect.

It is the fearless tiger who fights. 
With Vijay's leg still in her belly, she swipes and lunges,
Showing the unmatchable constellation of her magnificent teeth.
She will be hung by her paws from a stick and carried upside-down into the village as reward for her boldness.


What I loved most about you, what I needed,
Was your certainty.
It hardly matters if you were right or not, moral or not, kind or not.
You were orange and so black.
I hid in your stripes like a dream.


Of course you lied.
Of course you deceived me.
Of course you fucked everything that held still long enough, including that half-grown swamp rat bitch you knew I hated.
I heard you call her by my secret name, and that,
That was the thing I could not forgive.


It was the others, the brown sparrows, who finally swarmed you and drove you south,
But it was me,
Your little cloud, the kitten on your shoulder,
Who called you out,
Who stopped you short, 
Who saw the disbelief in your fantastic green eyes
When I stood up to you with no weapon but my pride.


After that,
Both of us broken in different ways,
We separately disappeared to bleed ourselves weak and sick on the shadows of thick summer leaves.


That is the way to do it, I think.
I even still love you, a little, 
But I hate sparrows
And tea-weak cowards.
I would still help you kill them
Just for the hell of it,
And just to stop their silly righteous chatter.
_________


for One Shot Wednesday