DAYS OF THE LION

It’s the same nature program
we’ve been watching all these years.
The lioness stalks
the herd of antelope.
She sniffs out the slowest,
the weakest of them.
Through tall brown grass,
she glides closer and closer to her prey
Your fingers dig into my palm.
Your sharp nails are demanding
I change the channel.
You’d rather not know
what happens to innocence.
Your nerve ends
send telegraphs to my flesh.
Give me the networks,
the movie channels,
where it’s just actors
killing and dying.
But it’s the same nature program
we’ve been watching all these years.
The lioness pounces
on the antelope’s back,
rips out its throat
with her teeth,
opens up its brown belly
with her claws.
The lioness drags her kill
back to the den
where the male lion
devours the best of it,
tosses her what’s left.
There’s a smugness
to his bulging eyes,
his bloody lips,
like he wouldn’t change
the channel either.