The Truth About Tigers

If I let myself go—
not just falter, but fall—
I lose the trail back
from the sorrow of strangers,
absorb the newsprint weight of grief
until it settles in my marrow
like winter.

The lines drawn in blood
blur easily—
becoming this mother,
and the father
across the river.

To feel what the world keeps
behind glass
is to glimpse something unspoken,
something real.

Not evil, exactly.
Maybe wrongness.
A hollow in the hive-mind
where reason should live—
the inheritance of lazy thinking
and sun-faded flags.

This old game?
Yes, we’re still playing,
though no one remembers
to keep the score.

And I can choose to carry the cost,
or set it down—
to look away,
like we do with so much else.

For now,
I’ll stay a while—keep vigil
in that hollow room built for one,
but known by all,
eventually.

I suppose I owe
at least a breath of attention,
the small price of saltwater and silence—
to follow the trail,
step into the slow-dark hush
of grief that isn’t mine—

and let it be.

First published in The Awakenings Review, Spring 2026, Volume 13, Number 1.