Neither wolf nor lion

She spoke to the young one
in stories--metaphors.
Lessons she wanted the child
to learn, from her own life
and from the lives
of others. Wisdom shared
in the lull of her storytelling voice.

She spoke to the child of wolves,
but she was herself--a lion.
The child 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.

The child was no wolf, nor ever would be,
no more than the storyteller. 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.

The Red King, a contemplation

Red King. Supplanter. Your names shed more light on the effect you had on me than months of fragmented pondering and writing have offered. You came into my life unexpectedly. I invited you in, it's true, but my perception of you had very little to do with the reality I was to encounter. You took me by surprise; a neat trick, while I was looking right at you.

You were an earthquake--you hit me hard, suddenly. I missed the telltale warning signs. And you shook my world, rocked me to and fro and shattered me with exquisite precision.

The more I think of you, the more I understand--the bits of clarity that dribble though to my conscious mind. I understand the fear--delicious and intense, trickling down my spine like lava. You terrified me and transfixed me; for you I would have stayed in that desolate wasteland I so hated. You inverted the poles on me, altered the constellations. All my instincts were pulling me north, pushing me north, dragging me, coaxing me, calling me, cajoling me. But three weeks with you and I lost my sense of direction. You were a magnet, drawing me to you. You became my north, and that frightened me.

The excitement, the desire, the pleasure and the nervousness--all vying for first place in my conscious mind. Around you I could be simultaneously so nervous I could vomit and so happy I was dizzy. I wanted you. I'd forgotten what it was like to want so much, to be filled, consumed, to burn constantly with want.

After the Man, I thought I had shut myself off to that, to the wanting. Perhaps I had, to protect myself--a sort of survival instinct. Or maybe since the Man, after I had doffed my mourning, I simply hadn't encountered anyone who could fill me with electricity and fire, till you. But then you sauntered into my life and devastated me with laughter, with delight. Your merest glance was enough to make me ignite, your lightest touch enough to make me go up in flames.

Earth supports fire: it feeds it, stirs it up, lets it consume and grow and swell. An earthquake can stir dying embers into an inferno.

You were unexpected. And then you were gone. But I am grateful for the all too brief time we had, for the three intoxicating weeks (ironic, I know). You weren't trying; that's what made it all the more intense. But the embers you found still glowing deep within me, sheltered from the world, from the lovers taken and left, from everyone since the Man, that your clever hands (and mouth) stirred back into a blazing beacon, embers I had thought long since extinguished... You brought me back to life, to awareness. You filled me with hope.

I mourn losing you. And I know I have not finished mourning the might-have-been. But I would not trade a single moment spent with you--frenzied or fraught--to spare myself that piercing pain.

You proved I am still alive.

Thank you, Red King.