He must measure the average
length of the fangs and each claw
unsheathed, calculate the reach
of the forelimbs, the maximum
expanse of the leap.
By sleeping on the grasses
of their abandoned beds, he can become
accustomed to the smothering odors
of their fur and hide, learn to anticipate
the sudden dizzying musk of their resonant
bodies and thereby hope to maintain
equilibrium in their presence.
The clever feint and dodge, the pistol
loaded with blanks, the report of the whip
snapped in mid-air will often stay
a treachery. Fire of candle or small torch
thrust quickly forward by surprise
may momentarily keep desertion at bay.
Not one must be damaged.
He attends to the plaint of their roarings –
how the sound imitates in possibility
the breadth of the starry savannah,
in certainty the thunderous sky
of wildebeests in stampede. He must read
and absorb the entire vocal range
of their rages and victories, the lesser
growls and spittings of their love-making.
Here are the bones, the blackened blood
left from their feedings. All of them
eat flesh and lick the leavings.
Perhaps they will sit still on their small
stools and wait, watching him. Perhaps
they will saunter snarling in a line
around the ring and stop to rise reluctantly
on their hind legs before him, meet
his eyes, imitate prayer.
If the nuance of the fake charge
is mastered, if the dance of the tail
is interpreted, if the prophecy of pant
and crouch is forsworn, then the time
may arrive when pity will appear among them
and the door of the cage open, and he will
step out, released and resurrected.
Leave a Reply