Tiger

Originally posted 2/19/2010.

There are believed to be no tigers
in Worcester at the moment. 
Our lone animal park 
holds cougars and polar bears. 
If anyone here owns a surreptitious tiger,
they’ve been keeping it well-concealed, 
but this evening
I swear I saw a tiger
in the shadows by the back fence.

It’s been said that if a tiger
once tastes human flesh,
it will remain a maneater forever. 
This one clearly saw me,
but made no move in my direction.

It may have already eaten. 
It may not have known how sweet I am.
Perhaps that maneater label is just a legend.  
Perhaps the dream tiger, real or unreal, 
tried a man and found it wanting,
was seeking goat or sheep
or some game creature instead.

The tiger (and I know, I know,  it was unreal
but I could not take my eyes from it)
stopped by the oak tree.
It looked up  — perhaps at unfamiliar bark,
or a scent it had not had to identify before. 

Perhaps it was listening for voices it knew.
I called it, using a name I haven’t spoken in years.
It turned and tensed, fangs and stripes
bared but transparent, 

and suddenly I saw through its body, 
saw it as menacing as I had not before,
as if there was an overlay of pain rippling there
I had not noticed, as if I was seeing it
through a terror veil, and I longed
for it to rush me — I called to it:

mystery cat,
tiger in the mind,
be more real
than I can conjure.

Come and tear me up, 
leave my true blood on the ground.

I am tired of my fear of ghosts,
wish to fight something solid,
want to die by the act
something real.