When I was a child I would wake in the summer to the songs of lions,
calling hotly for meat, blood, bone to fill their bellies.
How many little girls can say when they opened their eyes every morning the world reminded them:
"Take all from what you are given. Tear it apart in your teeth, your hands, your mouth and take nourishment from it.
"Eat. Live."
This morning my lions are
two black cats that weave pitifully between my bare feet
squeaking their discontent into a florescent sun.
I cannot even hear the sparrows.