Camel aside,
the straw that broke the lion’s back
was not in fact
a straw at all,
but the utter gall
of the Pride arriving
after
the fall,
Her cry was guttural
and yet they stalled,
But had they been there still
– had that been their will –
curiosity may not
have lured this fille into his crosshair,
(c’est la guerre!)
wherein
she stood ensnared,
fear-rigored,
as the hunter squeezed the trigger,
Triggered flashbacks
of lives played back
from one through eight,
Had they remained,
they’d have stayed her fate.
But it’s OK,
For she’s surprised to find
that she no longer minds,
Even when (for the ninth time)
she lies
exsanguine
on the arid plain
with no-one there beside,
she no longer thinks it unfair;
for when it comes to
those disposed to care,
in all her lives,
and in all her prides,
she’s always had
the lion’s share
of eyes
turned
blind,
cold shoulders
i n e v i t a b l y
bared.
Serena Malcolm 