The White Lion Poem by Birgitta Abimbola Heikka

From the corners of my eyes, I see him
The White Lion.
Behind me, hunched over
exhaling smoky puffs frigid
as the top of Kilimanjaro.

The White Lion, as a child,
I remember
In my sleep, I see him
scratching the door, wanting to get in
but open the door, I would not.

Its many changes, time has wielded
but his appetite, time has not waned.
The door he has forced open
and now lays in wait.
Ripe for the race is the prey.

Freezing fear
immobilizes me on this hard stool
where I stoop
while he waits, stirring not.

My fear is the White Lion’s delight
My pain, his ecstasy
My discomfort, his purpose.

How long can the hunter wait
for the thrill of the game?
The White Lion is ready for this prey.