No one writes poems for the handsome sidekick
who barely makes the frame—there to collect his master’s
clothes by the river. He has seen those creamy solid thighs
a thousand times, knows what lies behind the shrubs
of pink-body-bags, flies. You would rather hear
about the woman, the chimera beneath. You want to know
what the air was like that febrile day, how the sun crafted
a way to shine upon her fan of hair. I understand, you would
rather talk about the things only you can see
the tiger paws, the tail, a body transformed underwater.
But if you listen to the sidekick, he can tell you why all the old cities
made fortresses of themselves, how those soft green mounds
evocative of breasts should have been painted as ruined blocks
of apartments instead. You do not get to have an empire
without squashing someone else. Lean in and he will tell you how
the summer hunts are so frequent, even the heap of muslin
on the bank is overcome with sweat. Even the cicadas
who are sawing the afternoon in half seem to be signalling a threat.
On this occasion, the tiger woman escapes, but the sidekick
knows, eventually the body fails us. How many times
has he found himself dreaming of bird feet and a plumed tail
some way to take flight. You see, the river is sweet
and brims with carp, but the water’s edge is a kind
of skin, stained with curses and blood sacrifices.
In one part of the world something is always blooming.
No amount of washing takes the smell off him.
Tiger Woman
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