Unto the forest she drags herself
spectral Queen with more than a bite-
quite the talker.
Lion woman could cut out your tongue
devastate you like meteorites
flung like punches under satellites
mistaken for comets.
The noble trees mark her transit
some stand, others are sold to the ground
like chopped limbs, barbecued
to lessen the risk
of caving in your skull.
Lion woman with her atlas hands
nothing but clear cracks and tears
from chemical burns
walks half full, fear fossilised here
in the wake of man.
She wants nebulas for irises
the warm hug of a space suit
like the tin foil blankets
they give you outside a hospital room-
at least then they’d save her.
She yearns to pluck the stars
and keep them near her poached heart
but they already belong to the galaxy
and the moon has the sun’s love.