Maybe my wife’s the lion.
Maybe I’m the bear.
Maybe the bars dropped down around us.
Maybe we built the cage.
Maybe we’re supposed to gnash
and claw each other
to a bloody end.
Or maybe we’re meant to sit
in our separate musks
until our fur turns gray
teeth drop out.
Maybe she keeps the key
tucked in the vortex of her left ear.
Maybe it’s buried
in my winter coat.
Or maybe there is no lock
and the door swings
open with a nudge.
Maybe I’m the lion
she’s the bear.
Maybe I should join a circus
she find a conscientious zoo
feedings four times a day.
When crowds on weekends
gather, maybe she would
recognize her spouse
among the fathers with their kids
staring from the other side
of inch-thick glass.
And maybe under the big
top I would see her
as my trainer, wielding
the whip and chair
then carefully poking her head
in my killer mouth.
Daring me to bite down.