I'm ready, at last,
to share my place with you,
this willow room where wild chamomile
mingles with sharp-scented yarrow.
Plump honeybees buzz a drowsy strain,
drifting over banks dabbed with Indian paintbrush.
The river here is clear and green as glass;
pink-sheened trout jump half-heartedly
after hovering bluebottles.
The air is heavy with afternoon sun,
time thick and sweet molasses.
I'm lying languid and barefoot on the quilt,
tracing flying geese with a fingertip
while your fingers follow the fine lines
of my ankle. I shiver in the heat, then rise
and wade into water, white skirt lifted to my knees.
You watch, amused, as I busy myself
surveying the river bottom, finding fish
still as stone among the rocks.
"Looking for treasure?" you ask, and I nod.
You roll up your jeans and join me. "Aha!"
You dip down and scoop sand,
pluck out a pointed white rock, and hold it to the sun.
You scrutinize it with an expert eye, proclaiming,
"A tiger's tooth!"
I reach for it, and you pull me close.
You're pressing the rock in the palm of my hand,
and your body wet against mine.
And yes, of course you're right! Tigers!
Living lithe and lean in the overgrown sweetgrass,
camouflaged in the cattails.
I believe I spy a tawny eye appraising us...
I am bathed in the magic of this place;
you've lifted my skirt above my hips
and we're losing clothing downstream.
I whisper, "I see one,"
and you murmur, "I see it too,"
but you're looking at me, untying the bow
on my blue peasant-blouse.
The tiger stalks in the grass and waits,
and I close my eyes, waiting
to be eaten alive.
