right hand pointing

after Richard Brautigan

My porch in candles hosts all the lions who growl

from the other side. My father shoos raccoons

off the stairs. Last summer, he tossed a shovel

of gravel at a hungry bear. He could scare shadow-mice,

make darkness shiver. He pounces through

the candle’s fire as it licks the waxy stars that fall.

We are white light, candle lions who belong

to the same pride. The heat of his breath sears

though he is no longer alive. I have nothing to fear from this

or that side. These candles have ancient amber eyes.