Hungry Tigress

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In the Land of the Medicine Buddha,
I lay splayed
and comfortably feline
on the smooth wooden shaft of a felled tree,
staring up at your eyes,
the corona of branches
and pale blue sky
that you wore
like a halo.
You gazed down at me
in turn,
your stony face
filled with
unarticulated desire.

The afternoon was golden.

Seductive rhythms of sleep
enveloped us in their siren song
and we rested,
our eyes open still, alert,
feeling the warm caress of the sun,
straining to hear the imaginary bubbling of a dry brook.

My body was alive with the breath of nature.
As i lay there
inhaling your smoky, woodsy scent,
I felt the wild, restive elegance
of a lioness
rise within me,
her untamed feminine power.
I stretched my arms
and unwound the coils
of my spine with royal grace,
pointed my breasts
towards you.

Secretly:
I was the Hungry Tigress
of the Buddhist fable,
ready and waiting
to accept the sacrifice
of your ego,
to devour you
and change you
into something spiritually pure
by the discreet illusion
of my earthly need.

The sky,
peeking its light through the canopy of trees, yawned.
The hot arc
of the sun’s sweep across the day
lit a forest fire
upon the hollow tinder
of our bodies.

Our dreams flared
and like cats we jumped,
undulating and feral
in our movements,
reaching for each other, for the radiant heat of familiar embrace.

And so as faded prayer flags flapped in a quiet breeze
and old knotty Redwoods and Oaks watched,
we melted,
we burned;
we were transformed.

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