Made by the Teeth of Lions

In this liar’s bed

we don’t speak of lion dens

we just speak of marble men–

statues done by chipped chisels

helD in haNds with imAgined plans

then tested by the predators,

we are built

out of tribulation unchosen

and chance–

surely you see

this presence of mine

is just stone

surely you see

my hometown

of lions

has no claim on me,

surely you see

my spirit

only sort of fits here,

a weary warren voyager

breeding ideas in these veins

like rabbits

that only make it on the page

if they hold advantageous traits

or if they’re lucky

and escape at the right time,

see, I don’t really know who I am in here–

if I’m just a bundle of evolving ideas and memories and dreams

moving muscles and eating food

and sleeping when the stones feel like crumbling,

then I’m alive in a bed of

someone who lies to you

every day

behind this image

of a statue

out of my control

built by somebody else’s bones

and hunger

and I guess

you are too

so

no one really knows us

but maybe

I could search out the fleeting,

ever-changing truth of you

if I close my eyes

and listen

and reach for

the soft

pulse

where I imagine

your heart would be

filled with rabbits

yearning to go free.