September 15th, 2025
by Irinka Schröder
Collapsed
she licks the wounds they left behind,
each ache a leash on breath.
For in that breath lies a truth too sharp to name.
To speak it would shatter her bones.
So silence swallows the sunset
its clarity too loud,
its light too cruel.
Even her fire recoils.
She lies in a nest of loss:
her mate,
her pride,
her name,
her trust.
The old king is dead
or worse, reborn as a stranger.
He carries her scent
but not her story.
He wears her loyalty like a carcass
and lays it at the paws of another.
Not just any lioness.
The one who shared her shadow.
The one who knew her softest underbelly
and chose to bite.
He licked her wounds
as if they were his to heal,
then stripped her fire like stolen fur.
And she, she did not roar, she folded.
Not from fear, but from knowing what happened to those who stood.
To live, she lay still.
Became lamb in lion's skin.
Not cowardice but calculated survival.
Still
she draws at breath like straws.
Each pull a slow rebellion:
Is it over? Not yet.
Is it time? Not yet.
The wind does not answer with vengeance,
but of a heartbeat
remembering its name.
She does not rise.
But she is not done.
About the Poet
Irinka Schröder resides in Pretoria, Gauteng, South Africa.
Read the poet's biography and Wax Poetry and Art publications
on Irinka Schröder's Artist Page.
This poem is included in Poetry World #13,
published in the Wax Poetry and Art Library.
Previously published in Wax International:
Break Free
by Onwabo Mkenku
Wax International Poetry Magazine is part of the Wax Poetry and Art Network.
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