LION

By Lian Brook-Tyler

Men,
we want to tame you,
contain you,
restrain you.
Take away your roar.

There’s no safe place for your strength.
Your directness is a damned affront.
Your hardness isn’t welcome here.

We want you on a leash,
a chain,
a ball.
And your balls.
There, you’re no threat now.

Aren’t you a sweet little pussy cat?
Look how I make you purr!
You pat me with declawed paws,
I can hardly feel at all.

At night, I dream of lions,
stallions, warriors and kings.
Softness gives way to hardness.
My heart melts,
my blood runs hotter,
my juices flow quicker.
My breath beats the time
of the song as old as time.

The sun rises, you no longer do.
As I recoil at my creation,
my dream self tugs my sleeve and speaks.
Her words are virgin shades of silk.

Men,
I hunger for your hardness,
your directness is my desire.
Your strength would soothe me,
your roar rippling down my spine.

The spell is spoken.
I watch for signs
that the dawn has broken,
when you will arise.