A Tiger Chasing Horses

If she could, she would
take a backpack and go hiking
the woods near 70, where there are bears
and lions and tigers on the loose
chasing horses and stopping dead
in the middle of the Interstate, eyes
wide, playing Russian roulette with the
SUVs passing by.
She would spread her arms, go willingly
forward to bury her head
in the soft, warm coats turning thick
for winter—that smell of hunger,
confusion, heavy in
the growing wind, and
in the face of them,
she would not cry out (even once)
if they put their teeth and claws
through her paper thin,
boneless, dissolving self;
for in this dissolution, there is nothing
left but a bit of blood and
small flakes of skin.

You would find her,
in the belly of something
large, secure finally,
sleeping curled in fluids
anti-amniotic,
as if being born again
in the acids of digestion;
but not here—
(anywhere but here);
she could return a woolly worm
or else an amoeba or some creature
that cannot think beyond the gnashing
of its teeth or the slow creep forward
for warmth;
she would rather be a tree,
or a stone that stands in the crook
of a canyon; she would rather
have no heart to
start with,
no heart to lose from,
no heart to feed
to the monsters lurking in shadows
looking to push her
into the deepest,
darkest parts of grieving.

It would be slow—
the shift into stillness—
before the final frantic thrust of
this troublesome muscle
pumping one last gush of life into
tubes going stiff and brittle; the sound
of the final beat so loud in her ear,
like Taiko drums; like marching band
bass and brass, high-stepping with batons;
like a New Orleans funeral
dirge, they will wail their pain
with trumpets and saxophones;
they will march the streets
in tall black hats—
her body snug
in a coffin of lion lining
lying stiff on a platform,
hoisted high on the shoulders of
men and women with
stronger dispositions.