There was nothing domestic about the snarl that would
escape your gray mouth in the moment
before you pounced.
No house cat, no pet, could wound the way your wild fists would,
claws digging into underbellies and
fists slamming the prone backs of your prey.
We, the chased, never cowered; rather
we taunted you in a swift-footed death dance
on the nights you were bored
or sad, hungry or mad.
It was never clear why —
perhaps this is the circle of life, the way
justice is dealt in the animal kingdom.
You donned cape and crown and declared
yourself both rule maker and enforcer.
No marker of time really brings closure
when a stray kitchen clang is enough to knock
me back off my rocker.
You know the first rule of the fight club, after all.
I was always told silence speaks louder than words,
but with your hands around my neck
it’s not like I was given a real choice.
I don’t visit zoos anymore, as I’m too afraid
of the way the lions and tigers pace in impatience
on their side of the enclosure
as if anything could stop a creature
once he’s decided he wants to kill.