Tigers

She draws her asymmetric tigers over and over,

And I sit and smile inside because we are not ready

To smile on the outside—not until they adjust our doses.

And when she looks up at me I want to say

It’s not the madness that runs the fever in your head

And there is nothing in your hands but your hands.

But I oughta tell myself that first. And I should tell

Myself that the substance of light is not darkness,

And there are no thieves stealing jewels from my skull,

And function does follow form sometimes—but leave

That to the experts. 

In her dream of tigers, there are no flaws.

Despite what the other humans tell her. 

"What about this one?" I ask. 

She says, "She is the one who flashed in the waving grass.

She is the one who said virtue began in vice. She is the one

Who held your hand and led you here to the jungle."

And here in the jungle, I would rather not question

The trembling leaves or the voice in the canopy or question 

To whom this heat belongs,

These curls of fever turn the evening red;

Amber eyes circle in the dark behind me.

Sinister turns have always led home.