Cowardly Lion

Cowardly lion,
with your mane in your eyes,
I left by the yellow brick road
and did not call it escape
until the state line
taught my mouth the word.

I did not ask you to follow.
I only left a little light
at the edge of the road.

Then the road shortened anyway.
I folded the long ache smaller,
state by state,
until even the map looked embarrassed
by your silence.

Cowardly lion,
with your mane full of static,
how long can you call obedience peace?

You keep serving the person behind the curtain
like they have a heart to hand back.
Like the palace will reward you
for becoming easier to move
from room to room.

But some kingdoms do not need chains.
They only need a road
that keeps returning to the palace,
poppies blooming at every exit,
and a voice behind the curtain
calling it care.

They sell the way out in pieces.
Call the revolving door a miracle.
Call the field a place to rest
while the poppies lean orange and holy
over everyone too tired
to ask where the path actually ends.

You keep watering the poppies
outside the palace
and calling it care.

But you cannot save every body
left sleeping in the field.
At some point, even mercy
has to choose a direction.
At some point, a woman
has to stop mistaking the room
that uses her
for the room that needs her.

What makes you happy
when you are not translating yourself
into something the room can use?

I wanted to ask you that
before I became another distance
you could manage professionally.
Before your silence became
a locked unit
I keep trying to discharge myself from.

I miss the earnest girl
who used to spar with me
like honesty was a contact sport.
The one who came alive
when my bull-heart entered stubborn,
when my twin tongues split the silence,
when the archer in me
found the farthest truth
and sent it burning
across the room.

Not the maiden
sweeping the hallway after everyone’s damage.
Not the water bearer
pouring cool language
over every burning thing.

The lion.

I wanted the lion.
The one with heat in her mouth.
The one who knew what she meant
and swallowed it anyway.

Cowardly lion,
beautiful with your mane down,
tell me what was in your head back then
before I make a myth of it.
Before I have to decide
that silence was the answer
wearing your face.

I waited on the yellow road
long enough to learn
that not every lion wants out
of the cage with her name on it.

Some days out here
I have no north,
only hotel lamps, med carts,
another borrowed badge
against my chest.

Some days I think
finding you on the yellow road
would be enough
to make me tap my shoes together
and forgive the word home
for what it did to me.

But I am tired
of waiting for courage
to recognize itself
in a mirror.

Cowardly lion,
with your mane in your eyes,
I showed you the road.

You lowered your golden head
and let the poppies
answer for you.