My claws will slice through your armor
to leave you sitting still in a psych ward,
smoking cigarettes while your children
run panicked through the wilderness.
My golden fur is impervious to your attacks…
I’ll look serene and pristine as you vomit
your insecurities onto me in a court of law
when you take me for everything I’m worth.
My father was a typhoon who came of age
during war, smoking charcoal, delivering
heat in the wintertime with a wink and
a grin women half his age find seductive.
My mother was a nymph with glancing
eyes and a serpent’s baby rattle who birthed
me in the mountains where I spent my youth
blindly echoing sermons among crags and cliffs.
I lie somewhere between life and death, a
question mark posed to you in the form of
a sickle when you met me in the graveyard
where I told you I lost my virginity at your age.
To every culture, I am the lion, violent star
of Bacchus, seated on my throne, feasting
on your flesh to celebrate the end of summer
where you and I ride wild in the hurricane winds.