Not so, really, the seat of spring,
a car of dark cloths, the voice of
boys and whispers. Do it.
Do it, the lion sleeps tonight
playing on the radio. Do it.
Forty years the lion is awake.
I remain in the back, handblack,
churning. My stomach is den
solid now and hungers for the
shallow response. The song
played then shouts out loud.
Do it. I wrestled with it, and drowned.
The lion sleeps not I think. I see
the mane of his black head, the
italian tomorrow of my fourteenth
year roared from him.
I did it in the maw of that music.
I held onto the ****, pretended
to feed the wimoway. Never done.
I did it to the music of the *******
who whispered to me of the jungle.
I did it to the tune of the ***** that
pinned me to the mighty song.
The lion sleeps. I think not yet.
Snickersnack the wimoway is
whacked low and I drown in the
song. I did it, like a nun who fears
perdition if she drops the rosary.
The lion sleeps tonight. In the jungle
the ******* NewYork night
pads on and on. I don’t sleep.
Caroline Marie Shank
March 9, 2001
Written several years ago. I feel compelled to look back