We are told what a tiger is
From the moment we can listen:
Picture books, poetry, songs and stories,
A thousand ways to show this thing
That few of us will ever see.

We grow older, the stories darker:
The tigers will hunt us, beautiful, terrifying
If we dare to step outside borders
Set by those from a time where they were inevitable,
A promise, guaranteed, that someday they would come.

We dream of the day that they find us,
Make a meal of our fragile bodies,
Leave nothing but bones and torn-up cloth,
Vanish into the night to sleep us away.
We tell ourselves the only way to live,
Is to be meat in the stomach of a predator,
The way it is and always will be.

If we had not been told of tigers,
Would they be as real as now?
Or would they remain nothing
But an amber-striped thought
Stalking the edges of our cities in the dark?

Faerie;
With your golden eyes,
your sharp-toothed smile,
the words you spin in gossamer,
in starlight,
in orb-weaver silk.

You compose
a symphony in mycelium:
Each tree an instrument,
each interwoven root
a note in harmony.

Silvertongue, sundew,
you have set a snare with green willow,
a net of blackberry thorns,
baited it with honey.
All around, the evergreen pines,
the winter roses bloom.
A sweet end,
arranged in perfect circles
for you and I alone.

I step, happily, toward your waiting arms—
for with your clever, clever fingers,
oh,
sunflower,
you have
stolen
me
away.

(what do you want from me?)

i want you to come with me,
deep below,
down beneath,
let me bury you.

(would it be quiet down there?)

yes,
with dirt in your ears,
dirt on your tongue,
the silence so beautiful.

(and if i don't like it, can i dig myself up again?)

no,
but you won't want to.
the earth will hold you,
the dark will warm you,
the worms will sing to you.

you will never be lonely again.  

(then bury me,
hold me,
don't ever let me go.)