The Lion Poem by Mona Arshi

How unstable and old he is now.
Lion, like God, has snacks sent up

by means of a pulley. Although
you can never master the deep language

of Lion, I am made dumb by the rough
stroke of his tongue upon mine.

Nowadays I make allowances. We lie
together and I hear the crackle of his bones

and when I bring myself to open my eyes
he weeps, his pupils resembling dark

embroidered felt circles. Sometimes
I think all I am is a comfort blanket for his

arthritic mouth. But many evenings he'll sit
twisted behind the drapery solving my

vulgar fractions with nothing but his claws.
Lion and I break bread; I tend to his mane and

he sets a thousand scented fuses under my skin.
He starts undressing me under the sweetening stars.

Please girl, he mews; this might be the last time
I will see how the thin light enters you.