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.