Inside the White Palace
tastes right. You are trying to save
the tiger again, this time
she's in the shape of a girl
huddled at the head of a hospital
bed, fighting off
the hospice nurses, their
kind needles, with a glare and a wave.
stabbed directly under
the bruised skin at her elbows. White
noise shaped like two
hands, the tubes keeping her
tied to this town whisper and hum like
a tanker powering up at the dock.
You shave the tiger’s head,
camouflage her with a shimmering beret
and red spotted tights.
Mashed peas slipping
on the spoon they offer like the oily
fluid of secret aphids.
Her white tongue a snow-
blind otter, starting to feel: Nothing
tastes right tonight.