No, I don’t care much
for your lion paws
clutching clumsily
at things like small talk
and the small of my back
Me, I like to dig deep
with Mercury-mad fingertips
into the landscape of your dreams
and talk wild, rotten, and big,
like the shadow of hawk wings
On the ground,
where unripe blueberries have fallen
with the hollow thud of hail
and crunch under the toes like a cockroach
As I stand at the mixer
cracking eggs into the batter
watching the yolk get torn apart
like a heart that's breaking
You
you could have your cake
and eat it too
Until then,
keep your lion paws to yourself
and the doomed mane of your lioness
that grows whiter each night
with dreams of your sin
