A lion in a meadow
is what I am.
The cornflowers nod
casually, not afraid
Oak trees state
To each other, “Tamed.
” Impossible, when
the grass simpers,
to remember iron
in the veins, blood
sharp as teeth, the
forearm’s weight.
Impossible, when
the moon is a good
nightlight, the sun
has aprons on,
the stars spell
“Nice. Nice.”
How the meadow
smiles at me, inches
up my sides, how
the height
of my sheer mane
grows incidental.
Impossible, when
the sky pats
my leaves, puts
green in my cheeks,
understands me so,
not to flower.
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