Gazelle Ghazal

As I dozed off a famous comic appeared to me, holding a baby gazelle
and suggesting that if I took it and cared for it, all would be well.

I lifted her from his arms.  She trembled as she slept; dreaming, as I was,
of the plains of her birth.  She dreamed of running, leaping, living well.

Just a hint in her quaking hide of thoughts of jackal and lion.
A hint that she remembered her lost mother, but in her dream, all was well.

The funnyman was serious for once, no hint of laughter or a cynical eye.
“If you can keep it, keep it wild and safe at once, you’ll be doing well.”

I asked him then, “How can I keep it safe and wild at the same time?
Is this a joke?  You confuse me with this, and scare me as well.”

He locked eyes with me.  “Laugh if you want; I joke about things
that matter.  If you find this scary or strange, consider that well:

a certain amount of fear for that edge you’ll walk is the price of caring.
The steps you take with her should scare you, and you would do well

to know that only by sharing her trembling will you understand
that her path is long and hard, and yours must be as well.”

Then he vanished, and I woke.  The night was not over, not even close.
I tried to sleep but thinking of what this meant kept me from sleeping well.

My broken sleep echoed with his final words: “Tony, this dreaming gazelle
impels you to leap though you know the danger, if you would be well.”