I was like this tiger too old and arthritic to chase deer.
It was either women bending down
to wash their linens in the stream or starve.
Cunningly (yes I still had my cunning if not most of my teeth)
I crept through the low brush.
Nearer and nearer. Then I pounced. One big rubbery kiss.
I was rich enough and knew the best places.
Is he really dating that woman half his age?
So went the whispers of the monkeys in the trees.
When reality caused us to split, 1 spent all the time
looking in the mirror, pulling out tufts of faded orange
and black fur from my thighs.
I cried real blood all the way to my talons.
No mask, just veracity and fear.
Now old carnivore, you must forage in the weeds.
Maybe a dandelion will be to your taste.
Maybe a field mouse.
At night I hear the growl of lone predators
stalking in the neon jungle...the perfumed taste,
the glass-rattling dance steps, the whiskey dreams
of pearl and amethyst, the music of the clarion kill,
I could crawl up in a corner and die.
Or hunt the ones so weak
they pity my weakness.
Growl. I can write it down at least.