The South Gate

Light cups the breasts of the lion. Who remains

Unbothered. Stone lion. Stained breasts suddenly

Full of milk. And no one to feed on them. No one

To catch the warm liquid as it falls, sweet and fast,

To the ground. Moss on the lion’s legs. Moss

Bloodying her small feet. Moss darkening the fruit trees

Dressed now in the snow that raises the ghosts

Of dead flowers: a visible shadow: a touchable shadow:

Flesh of water and ash. Like the sun, the lion

Is a two-faced creature. One face looks forward.

The other back. One grins. The other grimaces.

Her four eyes are old. Oh, it is a far, far country

The lion comes from. A place almost unimaginable,

So dull are we. The lion herself almost unimaginable,

Even with her curious form stationed above us.

Wide the arms of the roses nailed to the wall below her.

Dry the weeds. White the snow dressing the ground

And then dressing it no more. Low the sound

Where no sound should be. Deep in the heart of the ground.

The lion will bear a child. How can a stone lion

Bear a living child? Because still in the corner

Of her deformed head a dream lodges. Her breasts

Produce milk. The sweet milk falls to the ground.

The ground is a flock of dead birds. The wind

Rises. The fed offspring stirs. Soon he will stagger

From burial. Terrible. Wrapped in soiled cloth.

Stinking. Lion flesh and bird flesh and man flesh.

We would prefer this were a trick. Strings

And ropes. But it is not. The lion will grow large.

The greenness is his hunger. His hunger will overtake

The ground and soon devour even the mother.

She will sleep in his belly. He will rock her softly.