Cold and relentless
Silently stalking across the Serengeti
the moonlight slid over her–
ankle, knee, thigh, groin, belly, ribs, breasts–
to pounce on the throat.

I watched, transfixed:
‘You must not violate the law of the Serengeti,’
the tango of predator and prey.

But everything changes
When the predator is cold and distant
And the prey is lying next to you
smelling familiar.

JGL

‘I always thought I would marry
a rancher’, you said.
Thought or dreamed, I thought.

He would be unlike me in every way.

At dusk he would ride in
tall, straight, hard
covered in dust,
eyes in a permanent squint
boot leather skin
silent.

Rarely
he would simply take you
without ceremony,
as a bull or a stallion would
you smelling of onions or apples
he of dust, fire, sage, himself, horses, saddles.

After, out on the porch, smoking a cheroot,
He would say something
about a broken fence or an injured calf.

And you would feel every inch a woman.

JGL