Tigers and Hunters

are lovers at first.
The battle still game.

The rifle may jam.
The Hunter survive
stiletto swipe to face,
tender-Tiger-style.

There is always hope then.
That one may simply
lie still and let the other
lope off.

But what if the aiming
of that rifle, those claws,
is too stirring
to resist.

If the memory of that
gun, and that click,
trigger the sickness
of last week's miss;
the claws--the kiss
once transfigured.

If either Beast will
not lie down. And paws
scrape metal, or pavement,
or dirt, and the jaw is
a weapon, the snarl
of a curse, and haunches
tense at each small sound.

And then eyes lock, each
split upswept--
and Jungle cries only
with Keeper
and Kept.