Mother Lion
The tawny, long-necked lady talking
on a rhinestone studded cell phone
who drove her caddy into a cab
which knocked into the back of my car
where my son slept in his plastic seat,
now gestures, graceful as an antelope,
apologizing to the taxi’s beefy
passenger while we all
stand in freezing drizzle waiting for the cops.
She ignores me,
a short woman cradling a baby, crooning
The cow jumped over the moon.
She has no idea
had the cab hit harder, forcing
glass and steel through my son’s skin,
his soft bones broken,
how easily I would leap
the yards between us and tear out her throat.
IV. The Emperor
Every life needs edges.
I protect you from the meadow’s
wanton splendor,
passion running amok.
Lean against my law
the way a child lets go
into a father’s strong arms. Pruned
and tethered vines bear stronger fruit.
Defy me if the sobbing of jailed innocents
grows louder than rain.
Kill me when the names for animals and sky
replace the animals and sky.
Photograph Found on a Table
Child
caged in crinoline, what do you see
as you stand wide-eyed with your family,
five women tense
in white dresses, the lone
man dapper in black? Who pushed your feet
into hard shoes? Tightened their bright
buckles? Whose hands snapped barrettes
into your wild hair? Silk snaked
around her throat, the bulky teen behind you
leans on a stark wall. You coil, set to
spring, as a stiff-wigged matron
(mother? grandmother?) vises one arm
and grips the other elbow. The man’s thick fingers
press down on your shoulder.
You position one hand on each of their laps.
Ready
to push off. What do you see
and where would seeing lead
you if the grown-ups
let go?
XX. Judgment
When you come to a fork in the road,
take it. – Yogi Berra
One path cushioned with leaves
whose well-known shapes
you traced in childhood with crayon.
Take the other.
I understand
you don’t feel ready.
No one ever feels ready
but you are choiceless as a chick
inside a cracking egg.
Can’t you feel yourself
unfolding toward the shards of light?
XVI. The Tower
Stones of money,
bricks of sex divide you
from the wind, the wild stars.
Trapped inside my walls, you
miss the tocsins.
Pressure’s building fast.
Do you think
lightning comes from outside?
Too late now. The bolt
sears me like love.
I’m crumbling.
Which god will you pray to
as you leap
into a sky alive with fire?