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The Lions

I had a dream, I dreamt
of two grown lions, one
a male and one a lion-
ess. I was frightened
to realize I was their care-
taker. I let them inside and
pretended to be relaxed
but I was afraid
they would turn on me.
I petted their heads
and put my hand in
the lion’s jaw; he rested
his teeth on my fingers
I knew that if I showed
my fear he would bite.
I let them outside
through sliding glass
doors, and I contemplated
how to get out
of my situation. I knew
not what I was doing
I knew not how to feed
a lion. When I walked
past the glass doors
they grew excited as
if it were feeding time.
I did not want to let
them in. I took some
steak from my fridge
and threw it outside.
I kept some for myself.
I was growing more and
more afraid. This was
not my life, not my skill-
set. I was an assistant
at an art gallery! I
called my manager
at the gallery to ask
if she could send help
but her phone rang
and rang and
nobody answered. I
remembered her
saying, “Claire needs
to get out of this”
but no help was sent.
I knew not what to do.
I let the lioness inside
for I was beginning
to love her. I crouched
beside her and tried to
soothe her, but she
could sense my
fear and she grew
wilder and I
more afraid. I sent her
outside again and
then I knew
the lions would soon
disappear. I wondered
who would take care
of them when I was
gone. I felt sorry
to abandon them. I loved
them and I feared them
just like they always
told me it was with
God, though I do not
think the lions were God.
How can I interpret
a dream which escapes me
the more I try to grasp it.
It really happened and
it really did not. I am
the lions and the lions
are inside me still
eating my heart like that
beast in the desert.

Dead Poem

if a poem is dead
you must move on
you must not try to save it
you must not try to transplant
lines from the dead poem
into a new one
sabotaging the chance of life
for the new poem
sometimes a poem isn’t dead
but you must move on anyway
because it is not working
in these cases it is
alright to transplant lines
or to come back to the poem
at another time
actually, all poems are dead
actually all poems are living
I’m actually no longer afraid
of dying
that’s a lie
but being obsessed with living
forever is a waste of time
wanting to feel good all the time
is wasteful
at the end of a lost road
I’m not sure what is there
so I’m not going to think about it
snow, river, mountain or another road
I might not remember who I was
when I get there
that might feel good
but in order to feel good
must you remember feeling bad?
of course I’m thinking about it
I’m storing up all the fear
and bad feelings caused
by not knowing
so it will feel so good
like taking off all your clothes
as soon as you get home
from a long day of work
I’ll never know
what it feels like to be truly naked
not anymore
not since I was born
in Stockton, California
I can’t remember much of that time
since it was relatively non traumatic
that must have been nice
the times I remember most clearly
are when I felt most ashamed
and had to correct my behavior
there used to be dense
dense fog in the valley
but not so much anymore
the heat is what defines the valley now
you don’t want to let your pets
stay out in that heat
or else they will die
I remind myself that animals
naturally understand death
is a part of life when I see a squirrel
has fallen from a tall branch
it makes me feel better
I don’t actually know
if they think about death
but I would imagine there’s a natural
peaceful understanding
of it
of course they try not to die
unlike some of us
who have such a tormented relationship
to things we don’t understand
always having to form opinions
like what I said earlier
about walking away from a dead poem
I don’t actually know
if I believe that
maybe poems can have a next life
at a friends house for dinner
we were talking
about reincarnation
everyone agreed they felt
that they’ve been here before
then someone turned to me and said
“I think this might be your first life”
and everyone at the table agreed
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it
what about me makes them think
this is my first time?
whereas they’ve done it
multiple times?
is this all too familiar to them?
of course I don’t feel like I’ve
been here before!
when you go to sleep you look
like you’re dead
only you come back
to yourself in the morning
and morning sounds like mourning
which is what you do
for somebody dead
but you already knew that
since you’ve been here before
and you’ve read this poem
many times
I met a dying man and I said to me
I said I won’t tell you
how he died
because I don’t want to put that image
in your head
all I want you to know
is it was as painful as childbirth
meaning it was worth it
and he would do it again