John The Bastard Considers His Lunch Options

What I most desire

is the meat of a lion
and a fork smeared with hemlock
to spear it with,

to raise courage
and a hint of poison
to my lips
at once.

But with what shall I wash it down?

There is currently
the juice of an artist’s suicide
in my cup.

If I want that certainty,
I am a fool —
and I am no fool.

There is water,
but I don’t want water.
There is beer,
but I don’t want beer.

Perhaps I shall choke down the meal
with no drink at all,
feel it roughen my throat
and sicken me slightly
even as I grow strong
and brave.

Perhaps the lion
died feelingthat way,
the spear that killed him
erupting through his middle
even as he turned to fight
that which had hunted him
even as he hunted,

becoming (even as he ceased)
fully
lion.