Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
– William Blake
Tigers, raised to sell as pets,
or bred for bone to grind and flavor
bowls in the distant Orient.
My daughter tells me, a tiger escaped
in Johannesburg. She’ll be there soon,
and in her many preparations,
this amber-eyed animal did not figure.
Johannesburg, ten million souls
worried by crime, blackouts, fires.
A tiger loose? That risk seems small—
but tell that to the man who was mauled,
bitten and bloodied, lost his dogs.
Escaped, the tiger reeks of musk,
orange stripes dimmed by dust.
On dread feet, he roams alone
on the lions’ continent.
In a breath, I journey back in time
to when I held you, daughter,
in my two open palms.
Don’t tell me you don’t see me
with your days-old eyes.
Don’t tell me you don’t smile.
The tiger pads on silent paws
along Johannesburg boulevards.
A fire burns bright in his eyes.
Capture him before she arrives.
The Muleskinner Journal, Journal Seventeen