Camille Lebel
LAMB TO LIONESS
I.
There was a promise,
presented and inscribed on
chaste, pre-pubescent hearts.
Etched into sterling silver, encircling a finger.
Her first bondage--
a reminder that her body is not her own.
Spit. Thick and stringing,
it lands in a cup passed from boy to boy.
Pastor, Father, Brother--
sleeves rolled, hair gelled.
Reflecting pious approachability,
he lifts the makeshift young womb into the air,
deeply tarnished.
“Would you drink of this cup?”
II.
On her wedding night,
she thinks of that cup and
fingers the strange bits of lace
meant to adorn, accentuate.
A garnish for the lamb.
She shudders, trying on another’s skin.
Sheep are promised instant transformation;
Soft wool, snow-pure, is split open into
the lithe, sure sinews of the insatiable lioness.
Fierce and fearless.
She’s never been good at acting.
III.
Garish, glossy print,
tucked carefully under modest clothing in a drawer,
promises ten steps to rapture.
But she remains solidly stuck on Earth.
Inexperienced fingers searching, hesitate.
The child plucking out Chopsticks
desperate for a sonata.
The trapeze artist reaching, stretching for the bar,
Fingertips just brushing.
A body falls,
never reaching flight.
IV.
Years later,
she still prefers her label-maker to her vibrator.
Both whirring softly,
One creating a certain, crisp result.
Clean-cut perfection in black and white.
Orderly and predictable.
The other struggles to an uncertain end.
Gray, aching paths through forbidden forests,
shame stubbornly hanging moss-like from branches.
Frantic, she searches for absolution.
V.
The four letters on her lips now,
once rebellion, tried on for size,
ill-fitting, washed clean by a bar of Ivory soap
She’s learning to use her words.
Hold the letters firm on her tongue.
Offer up the word as a prayer.
As a request. A command.
Fuck.
She smashes glass against walls,
rips moss down from trees, takes a chainsaw
to the entire forest.