exhibit.

Nanny thinks the carpet is too soft
to be my torturecage

and the sofa and endtables are poor
jailbars, but we

are feline and we're too tough to care
bigsister and littlesister are lioncubs today
baby lionesses, authentically,
we even lap milk from
ceramic bowls, bellies swollen from
the orders we give: 'emily, you're the

zookeeper.
Get us more milk.'

She hates serving us, she's only four
but she's getting strong and someday
she'll earn predator status.
(give thanks that we do not consume you, emily,
your fingers peek through the cagebars and
they are white and young and blood
is sweeter than breastmilk)

Roar. We are learning to growl
and snarl.

I tried to wrestle littlesister but we collided with
Nanny's gnarled sandalfeet and
she's mad.

So am I, Nanny.
I am a lioness today and I
am fierce.

Sarah tosses her mane and I explain patiently (she's only six) that lionesses are free,
don't need manes to chase antelopes
she's too young to care
if her imagination grants her maned masculine lioncubs in our living room,

then it is what it is
Roar, Nanny.
I'm going to grow old like this
Just try to take me, you're
powerless to my nine years and invincibility

Ten years from now I'll be a cub and I'll be shrinking
I'll be an unwise infant and I'll be lethal

I will spend the weekends sharpening my claws.