Tangram Tiger

I see in you the padded battles of matchbox dioramas
sabers drawn to clash harmlessly and dull—
where plastic death reaps over the die-cast and cutouts
sparing, but magnifying the spared ‘til their boots melt together
or their bayonets creep to hang bowed and useless.

There I am, gathering broken arrows on hills of stretched felt
while transatlantic babes stomp and splash in the pooling drops of my dreams.
They’re clocks, so meticulously constructed but flowing
and collecting in the folds of fabric, taut like skin on tribal drums
or the bold taxidermy that keeps your bed warm.

But what echoes in the primal scream of tigers no longer displayed?
Their lowest pitches I can’t hear, but see ghosts register and queue in doubles
readily devoured by aching mouths bound open and tongue tied
as they whisper expository plaques into cool earpieces
and dissolve slowly like communion wafers before their etherial lover.

The management is afraid you’ll steal the souls of the soulless
but I don’t think they considered where you’d keep them
since your bag’s checked and you’re sleeveless,
but they’re right to be cautious near the artificial tall grass
because you’re terrifying in those slimming stripes.