Poem Poem iv

The latest in my series of 'poem poem' experiments (I, ii and iii can be found in my new pamphlet). I wrote and performed this for a show in Edinburgh a couple weeks ago. Still needs a little work.

Trigger warning:
because this is the poem where a lion dies
call him Cecil, Mufasa, Aslan,
but don't call him after anyone
who cannot breathe
inside police chokeholds

inside the barrel of a gun
inside the symbolism which isn't lost
on me, nor on the man (it's always a man, right?)
who asks, below the line, why there isn't a white
history month and a straight pride
and why these reverse patriarchal communists columnists
are writing these mean things all the time

I can't finish this poem
while my anger still can't fit
into these jeans
so I am stacking up on wild locusts and honey
from Wholefoods (not cheap these days)
and my basket is empty
and my basket runs over like a wilderness
inside the lone voice of a prophet

This was meant to be a poem
about pride being eroded
until just one lion
is left
roaring into the angry paw of the hard shoulder
not signalling
not being thrown into a den
of blue thunder bolts flashing
not in my happy name
#blacklivesstillmatter
no matter how much you try to drown
our voices

But this was meant to be a poem about a lion
not a poem about another dead trigger