Lisa Wells

I stitched my mask of hide- snout- sinew- talon- and rode
the vast savanna to war

in my former life. I was the hybrid. I sewed my brutal double-helix into a child

and packed her boots with greasy wool that felted as she walked in bright

stratified color. Carpathian bronze couldn’t buy her off
when she leapt at the throat of my lover.

Him I called The Lion for his yawn and yellow ringlets.

I placed a Deglet date upon his tongue, I pressed
the golden scarab into amber, straddled all his lap, kissed

my cresset to the yurts of my superiors

and in this life, I think I’d like to do more damage.