by Jacob Rakovan
She imagined rain or fog
something cinematic, soft focus.
The night is clear when it comes.
She hops the cast iron fence
runs through pebbled paths to their assignation.
His roar rings through the park.
In the dark, drowsy watchmen
sneaking cigarettes, ignore her.
She knows without her he would starve;
cartoon-pink steaks cut from sickly antelope
could never sustain him.
He was born to this, no memory of India.
His paws remain sheathed in velvet pads.
His piebald coat and broken teeth pain him.
She knows he will not fail her
he has obligingly leapt through fire
for those who loved him less.
He paces the pattern of his cage
free of the tedium of circuses.
She wants to give him a sort of proof
some small and private justice.
A pile of clothes to puzzle the zookeepers.
She is new, and naked.
She climbs into his enclosure of false stone
and like a lamb gives herself over
to the ruin of his mouth.