Forgetting you is like a lion

by Francine Witte

pawhappy and swatting
at me like I’m a heatwave
mosquito.  I try to explain
that you and I are over,
and can I please enjoy my tea?
I offer to add you to my
history or my reflection,
showing up as a frown line
of a single gray hair.  But

if forgetting you insists
on being like a lion complete
with jungle crown, years
of sniffing for blood, I might
have to get a weapon.  Not

a gun, per se, or a spear, but
something better.  Legs that can
outran a memory, or eyes
that can stare down a catbeast,

look into its open cave mouth,
and when it rolls out that long
carpet tongue, I can simply
stand there and yawn back.