Sundays are for ice cream...

For parents.

Photo by Sam 🐷 on Unsplash

Tiger

Fur 
like ice cream splashed
on a hot sidewalk of cinders
and orange painted lines

Eyes 
fire crackers
shot from a green depth
of soul that breathes hot and slow
to a different star sign
than any human 

Bones
that melt and reform on command
giving a languid silent darkness to their travel
and a scale of terror that is large
and deoxygenating 
with each twitch
of a beautiful tail

I dreamt the Tiger and she followed me
not tame, not wild, not predatory to me
but
not safe
Mine by love and that respect of 
proximity rather than ownership

Fur so inviting I could dive in
burying my face and hands with
permission
feeling warm breath; slow heart beat
massive, dissolvable 
ribs

I dreamt the Tiger; she
followed me

and her cub
and another
and one more

practising the kill for the
ten thousand hours that make a tiger
Tiger

I sat with them and considered
my danger
Eeny, meeny, miny, moe.

I, of the Tiger
touchable lovable spectacular
drawing breath
silently 
depths behind my eyes
secrets I dissolve on contact
secrets that move with me

And my cubs

sharp danger like kitten claws
tearing down my cinder painted scars
ice cream at my throat
my own life blood in tiny three form 
free form
lethality/
vitality

I dreamt the Tiger;
She dreamt me
A sunset-slashed 
and creamy predator

with green firework eyes
and twitching apex trust
between 

mothers

~ Lynn Lundell, 2017

Photo by Alex Pasarelu on Unsplash