They don’t know.
None of them.
Lionesses all, we know:
Lonely we race savanna down
For blood for meat
For ourselves to be found in a kill of love.
He hunts, too, for her, but it’s not the same.
And thank goddess.
And yet, still it is not the hunt of love lioness makes:
a firestorm silent infinite roar: she plays in danger under a sun of her own tone-
a danger, a threat, a vulnerability of not owning her own heart -exposed under hot noon-
But feeding it feeding it always:
A blood bath for her soul that returns it to the gaping open-heart of her solar plexus.
A long and winding Pleiades into the extraplanetary focus of another
Standing on the black paint of sky
because black is never black. It is always
And there is a green in king’s eyes…
But it is an orange in queen’s.
Because earth warms, and rages in earthen races,
While his violet night hunt is cool as a sprint, and the purple road is paved and smooth and cool
in the black-green night,
a racing around the edge of stylized, cut, and known cliff's edges, while
Hers guns into a heart of darkness.
And then there was a wait,
a taking in of breath
And a silent holding at the edge of the road where the gravel meets
The bare edge of the black top rocks
that tell of a strange kind of civilization at the edge of the world,
Where lioness hearts are still queen,
And king’s rules are yet unknown.