The old lion
is threatened by the cub.

The cub
no longer young enough to be called a cub
acts as one.
He comes into the circle
with his sweet baby face
and his childish excuses
his fresh dense ruffled mane.
He basks in the sun of
matronly lionesses
happy to have a cub again in their midst--
even one not their own--
to pamper.

No one notices the lion in his den.
No one looks his way
or attends to his low-pitched growl.

The next day
the cub does not show
at his usual leisurely hour.
The lion smirks
tell-tale blood coagulated in his whiskers.

The lionesses shut down
pretend again he is not there
pretend not to see
except now they know he is there.
They feel--really--did it have to come to this?
Did their innocent pleasure in the youth have to cost so much?
Were they the cause of such disproportionate consequence?

This satisfies the lion
in a very cold way
having given up on
lionesses and love
a very long time ago.
He grins at the old dames.
There is blood on his teeth.
He doesn’t understand why they turn their eyes away.