Tiger, Tiger
(after reading short story, “Question 62”, 

by T. Coraghessan Boyle in Harpers, Feb. 2006)

the night I was large

at the lake of bards

and created a clan of glee



************************

and there she was

one eye

staring at her

half-lubricated falsetto

murmuring kitty, kitty

a tiger

tiger

in her belly

what a rushbottom sophomore mad jelly beanfish



this is how we do it, people

ride a crook horse to Raspberry Crock

but she couldn’t couch like this forever

she had to go a word-stealing

sterling silver word-smithing

take a short stroll down a long and winding rod,

oops, did I say “rod”? I meant ‘rood’



my little frog prince— or faddywaddy

muse of my loins

burning bright

I’ll tell you on the telly

‘bout the fish inside my belly

this is what passes for symmetry

these days

my love will come along, someday,

listen to my song:

my love and I don’t always understand

the cringing of the bitten hand



I’ll be on the radio

radio, radio, amid the stars

fade out…



the more she talked of symmetry

the more the tiger settled down.

© Cath M. Morris