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Lion Tamer
His first meal was fish
tin animals in a thick blood,
his box awash with diesel stink
and commotion, a yellow bulb aswing
with an unseen ocean's gradient.
The sun was god, back home,
its rippling orb speaking black angles
of trees and prey, those in uniforms.
An alien tongue cracks out orders
and whips: wars can be like that.
The rain-soaked wool of children,
cold hands, rusted purple white,
cabbage stink, the sad trail
of mess, rags of once-gold.
No pride.
The black tongue snaps; we submit,
to our friend.
His first meal was fish.
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