—after Richard Brautigan's "A Candlelion Poem" What began as wildfire ends up on a candle wick. In reverse, it is contained, a lion head in a hunter's den. Big Game. Bigger than one I played with matches and twigs and glass in the shade. When I was young, there was no sun and I was afraid. Now, in grownhood, I call the ghost to my fragile table, my fleshy supper, my tiny flame. Not just any old, but THE ghost, the last one I will be, the future me, finally the sharpest knife in the drawer. The pride is proud. The crowd is loud, like garbage dumping or how a brown bag ripping sounds like a shout that tells the town the house is burning down. Drowns out some small folded breath of otherlife: O that of a lioness licking her cubs to sleep in a dream of savage gold. O that roaring, not yet and yet and not yet dead. So many fires start in my head.
Copyright © 2012 by Brenda Shaughnessy. Used with permission of the author.