she cries out softly through the night after he leaves her
crouched over the tiny corpse. but she cannot afford
to mourn long. this is not her first cub, it will not be the last.
the ladies of the pride are hemming in a gazelle, glinting
yellow eyes clouded over with grief, their dusty dun faces
seem to blend with gazelle skin now. now she must surge
forward from the west if they are make the kill.
afterwards, they will gather around to suck the living
from warm blood. she will cringe when he comes up
limping. always showing up at feeding time, the bully.
but nobody will ask – where was his lion heart when a storm
of hooves and antlers went past? can his mighty teeth
gather nothing but dust? does being king mean nothing
but ripping apart the young? but the ladies keep their heads
down. they shift around the gazelle’s flank, make room.
cubs are slow, fathers fast and lion mothers know that truth
is the thing that prevails. sisters walk past yawning mouths
of brothers grown too large to blink first. the weak must kneel,
this is truth. and war is always pending, this too they know.
full manes tilt back and roar. tearing across this tawny land
is the cry for war. to heed a sister’s cry for help is war.
but she holds her peace. for now. she can hold her own
for now. peace between lions will arrive with a thirsty herd
and there will be too many gazelles to ignore. life is too short
to take on a war that will end only in fatigue. for now she will sleep
with the pride. the night will be moist and black as gazelle eyes.
too much time has been lost grieving for what she could not keep.
later the childless mother will flatten her belly to the ground.
these jaws killed her cub, this fiery mane, it hovers over her
again. oh, how she wants to live! how she wants to suckle!
there will be a time to kill but she knows it is not now.
the river flows. night falls. lions thirst. first, she will pluck
from his body another cub. for killing, she has time enough.
