2020-10-20

 
--William E. Stafford

A sign said “How to Be Wild—
the Lessons Are Free,”
so I edged past, bolted inside
carefully,
where the edge of a jaguar
roved beyond the bars
and narrowed the room. Its head,
one eye at a time,
sewed the tent to the stars; and the cage
ballooned when he turned.

Mid-stride, I froze and stared
past enemies
that fell in droves down aisles
of my memories.
My bones—wild flowers—burned
at whatever I’d lost,
but my enemies burned up too
in that holocaust;
and I strode on, caged from them
in disregard,
swerving, momently aimed,
like a jaguar.

The calm now, made to forgive
by bars between,
still fitted in those paw gloves
I walk what I mean. 


 


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