Tiger Beckett
I.
in the jungles of the tigers's heart
the same jungles are burning
while your mother draws calligrams
with a wooden spoon
the soup of her heart
fogs the eyes of her windows
she hears the songs in the subway
they are inaudible
the tunnels of this imagined city sleep in the ground
a thousand years before their construction
in the dumb myths of the savages
who skin the most beautiful princess for their gods
she rises with agni’s smoke
into cerulean blue
the drums keeping time
the air is full of our cries
posted by Peter Golub at 4:47 PM
