The Tyger
Tyger Tyger, burning bright
cornered and prodded
with brooms
and farm implements
then set aflame
by the villagers
after it ate one of their dogs.
What immortal hand or eye
could frame the picture
of Ted’s cousin,
the girl, not yet sixteen
bathing naked in the river?
Ted’s hand, and Ted’s eye—
the creep!
And he’s plenty mortal,
let me tell you!
Before the villagers dumped kerosene
over the beast,
and dropped the torch upon its back,
it gutted Ted
with claws longer than little dicks.
What the hammer? What the chain,
In what furnace were thy banana fritters left to burn
What the anvil? What the fuck,
isn’t that overkill?
Christ, would you stop?
The animal’s dead!
When they sliced
the big cat’s belly wide
and through the seam slipped
steaming
a puppydog,
a miniature Schnauzer
named Teacup
And would you believe
at long last!
Auntie Jane’s old teacup set
with painted puppies,
and not a single chip!
They sat in a ring
knee to knee
haloing
its regal bones
and warmed their hands over
Singed coat
Charred sinew
Gleaming fang.
Tyger Tyger, burning bright
Who is the apex predator?
They had no logs,
adding garbage to the flames
The forest was miles away
whereas once it had been near.
ABOUT THE ARTIST
James Callan lives and writes in Aotearoa (New Zealand). His fiction has appeared in Apocalypse Confidential, Burial Magazine, X-R-A-Y, Reckon Review, Mystery Tribune, and elsewhere. His collection, Those Who Remain Quiet, is available from Anxiety Press.
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