02 June 2014

Neither wolf nor lion

He spoke to her
in stories--metaphors.
Lessons he wanted her
to learn, from his own life
and from the lives
of others. Wisdom shared
in the lull of his storytelling voice.

He told her of wolves,
but he was himself--a lion.
She wanted nothing more
than to be a wolf, to have
a pack that called her their own,
bound by blood and the solemnity
of the kill, and by the loyalty
of sameness.

She was no wolf, nor ever would be,
no more than he. She dreamt
of dragons, and the lonely freedom
of flight. She dreamt
of fleet-footed felines,
ferocious hunters that were her
namesake. But she was dedicated
to a god she did not know, had never
known. How, then, could she be
a lion?

No, a lion she was not. Her name
was a lie, a false face.
She knew she must doff it
and search for her true self:
being neither lion nor wolf,
having neither pride nor pack.
All she wanted was to find
where she fitted, where she slid
into place, the missing piece
whose return would be celebrated
To come home, not again, but finally.

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