The snake is
a sleeve the deer
puts on, its mouth
a beaded cuff
in the haze men
make of morning
with each release
of their fist-gripped
guns. Is this a dream
of shame? Is this
a dream of potential
unmet, of possibility
undone? School,
no pants. Brush,
no teeth. Podium,
no poems. Open
door, all wall.
Dear Monster,
none of the guests
we disinvited arrive.
In the darkness
no lion comes.
Copyright © 2019 by Lisa Olstein. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on August 7, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets.