by Marissa Bell Toffoli.
Garland of lions, roar of paper.
Must tether these tatters
scratching across the library tabletop.
They prowl my dreams, always
on the periphery.
My blind spot moves. I dream
of your steady heartbeat,
of flying. The lions wait.
Bent spines and hardcovers
can only hide so much.
In the mirror, I hardly recognize myself.
If I change the light, open that window there?
A lion shakes out its mane in the sunset.
Northern fires fill the air with smoke.
Haunted. Hunted. We carry our fears
around like chains.
I decide to feed my losses to the lions.
Then, line by line, I’ll count what we have.
Hold fast to that instead.