by Cornelia Rohde

An imperial Bengal tiger
moves on cottony paws
across the garden of my patchwork dream,
pacing steadily toward me.

Molten eyes like magnets
lock onto mine.
I observe her with suspense
behind clear windows in the living room.

With half a heart I shift the couch
to keep her out. It seems the thing to do,
although not because of fear. I feel only
ease to have her near, and sense

nothing can stand between us
any more, if I, instead,

fling wide the door.


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