Lions Are Interesting

Each morning in the little white cabin

by the river they woke to a raccoon

clawing under the floorboards or banging

in the wood stove. They did not discuss this.

Instead they said it was a perfect day

to pick blueberries on the hill, or that

a hike to the old glassworks sounded good.

They were beginning to speak not in meat

but in the brown paper the butcher wraps

around it. Brown paper around dirty

magazines. Like dirty magazines, they

only traced the contour of substance: silk

over skin, skin over muscle, muscle over

bone. What's under bone? Marrow? Their forks so

small and dull. As if for dolls. You can tell

dolls from animals because the latter

are made of meat. Many eat it, also.

Lions are interesting. Lions don't eat

the flesh of their kills right away, but first

lap up the blood, until the meat is blanched

nearly white. White as the little cabin

by the river they stayed in that summer.

White as the raccoon covered in ashes,

his black eyes bottomless and bright with hate.