Lions

The smell of her skin on the breeze
is a broad savannah.
The sound of her breathing
is the sound of hard pads in the street.

I lie down, a rough carnivore, beside her
and feel the beat
of her heart and heat of her blood.

The goat in the cage is for my capture.

How loudly the proud lions rage,
cut off, as they are, from escape.

I gather her breasts like small birds.
feel the soft bones crunch.
She moans as gently I munch
and her rib cage heaves.
Her mouth makes the cry of a fowl.

Forced by fear and need,
I drive my blunt weapon inside.
Now the lions feed with guttural growls
and with grunts.

Once fed, like domestic cats,
the lions crouch
at the edge of a pool,
lap and drink,
stretch out with sighs on their sides,
go fast asleep.

I am made to plumb
how deep
is the depth of my hunger
and, dear God, how dumb.