Christopher Newgent, The Lion

The Tawny Lion, Pawing to Get Free His Hinder Parts, Then Springs as Broke from Bonds

What sort of world did we come into that first night when we,
fresh from the fall and up to our shit in apples, found our bodies—had no joy,
no romance to share, all copulant rage screaming upward. And the angels,
did they weep real tears? or howl down at us, “Me next!” Did the animals watch
abashed? or turn to one another, saying, “So, that’s how it’s done.”
What sterile paradise did we shatter screaming into the dark, “O G-d, o G-D,
my G-d, where have You been?”




how we give what we give

the meat with the bones,

you know
what we do

with the meat
with the bones? we feed
it to the lions. we give

the bones to the grass.




The Lioness

I hold my hand like a tin can to my mouth. It gets that bad. I speak into my hand. I hold my hand to my ear and listen.

I once heard a heartbeat and thought it was you, holding the receiving can to your naked breast. I thought of your breast.

I once heard an ocean, and I thought of you holding the receiving can to your naked body. I thought of your nacre skin, the time I held my ear to your navel and heard an ocean, how we are seas and how loud we are out there. We have nothing but ourselves to crash into.

I wonder when you’re coming back. I talk to you, I hear back heartbeats and oceans. I wonder if you’re ever coming back.

Some nights, I don’t care who comes, whether you or Vishnu, Christ perhaps or Valhalla. Just come back. Fix what is broken.