I was watching this move
about lions.
In Africa.
Brother lions.
One was called The Ghost, and
the other was The Darkness.
They were beautiful,
these lions.
And the way they stalked-
dancing through skyhigh dying
grass on a dirt river-
in the night after their
warm, seasoned,
prize.
But i digress.
These brothers,
lions,
African beasts waiting
for something
filthy.
Like them. I
watched
without breathing
as the moon took her place in the sky, and
Man grew restless for
The Darkness and The
Ghost.
I heard a faint trembling,
No, felt,
where my insides were screaming
for attention.
The Ghost waded
through the dirt river, eyes piercing
the night. Ready to eat.
To chew.
To swallow. I envied him
and his
brother, as the
trembling grew more impatient.
And the night became a
metaphor
for porcelain paper bags,
breaking
promises, and
small lunches turned to liquid in the
whirlpool.
