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At night
when the mind at rest
becomes a theatre of the soul
I saw a Great Lion

The marble stare of His eyes
as the sun through a magnifying glass
pinpointed against a small, dry leaf
compelled to smoke and burn.

Fearsome Hunter
King’s mane, thick paw, and bristly fur
Reared up not to pounce or devour
Nor to strike down or shed blood
But to embrace


Upon whom He doted
More than young who wait at mother’s hip
More than brothers who stand in war
More than lovers whose agony is to reach from afar
I am His frail prey, but at my word the hunt stopped.

Hurt, betrayal,
bewilderment, sadness.
“Why can’t we have a relationship?”
No, Lion, that would not be proper.

Then the air was pulled tight
And I feared the answer of this tender One
And the mind’s fourth watch ended, leaving me to wonder,
What am I really afraid of?