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How to Be Eaten by a Lion

for Claire Davis

If you hear the rush, the swish of mottled sand

and dust kicked up under the striving paws,

its cessation, falling into the sharp and brittle grass

like the tick of a tin roof under sun

or hint of rain that nightly wakes you,

try to stand your ground. Try not to scream,

for it devalues you. That tawny head and burled

mange, the flattened ears of its sleek engine

will seem only a blur, a shock, a shadow

across your neck that leaves you cold.

It may seem soft, barely a blow,

more like an exquisite giving

of yourself to the ground, made numb

by those eyes. It may be easier just to watch,

for fighting will only prolong things,

and you will have no time to notice the sky,

the texture of dust, what incredible leaves

the trees have. Instead, focus on your life,

its crimson liquor he grows drunk on.

Notice the way the red highlights his face,

how the snub nose is softened, the lips made fuller.

Notice his deft musculature, his rapture,

because in all of creation there is not art

to compare with such elegance, such simplicity.

Notice this and remember it,

this way in which you became beautiful

when you thought there was nothing more.