How to Be Eaten by a Lion. Michael Johnson

      Nightwood Editions acknowledges financial support from

      the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and

      the Canada Council for the Arts, and from the Province of British Columbia through the British Columbia Arts Council and the Book Publisher’s Tax Credit.

      This book has been produced on 100% post-consumer recycled,

      ancient-forest-free paper, processed chlorine-free

      and printed with vegetable-based dyes.

      Printed and bound in Canada.

      CIP data available from Library and Archives Canada.

      ISBN 13: 978-0-88971-318-5

      ISBN 10: 0-88971-318-9

      for Stéf, mon amour

      &

      for my mother and father

      We are the song

      death takes its own time

      singing.

      —Robert Hass

      Ornithos

      for Robert Wrigley

      Sing of larksongs in the brambles and mud cities,

      the Kivu lakeshore rookeries

      along those cooled cradles of magma.

      Sing the birthplace of death and drought,

      of baobabs and jacaranda buds,

      the stump-rumped waddle of dabchick

      and duck, shag and scissorbill,

      their heron wet cousins strutting rivers.

      You brittle bastards—

      lovebird, greenshank, tambourine dove,

      tinkerbird, oxpecker, little leaflove—

      you are great in your littleness,

      your hover and yaw, the way you bleed

      the light your bodies are made of.

      We envy, we dream, we sun in your splendour,

      the sky built into your bones.

      O bird, bird of prey,

      of prance and shimmer on the thermals.

      Kingfisher, nightjar, swift and shrike,

      honeyguide, harrier, curlew and crake,

      coo and I will echo, telling my lips:

      Go on, go on, these are your wings.

      In Praise of Pain

      Fluent in dialects of mantis and chameleon,

      we lay reading cloud hieroglyphs,

      listening to insects gossip in the grass

      beneath the largest nest we’d ever seen.

      We believed beetles the ant-world gods,

      all inkblot and iridescence and poise—

      dung, rhino, stag—surely immortal.

      But our friend’s goliath had died that day.

      Too out of its element, its rainforest home

      where leopards whiskered the shadows.

      No one mentioned loneliness.

      The innumerable live, the rare die.

      A million wasps, one less was not tragic.

      So we visited that nest with stoic anger,

      six kids with slingshots, six missiles, all true.

      One cleft the papery hull and lit their rage.

      Our second salvo plummeted the nest

      to a marakuja thicket, were it emerged,

      rolling, gathering momentum

      toward the terraces and workwomen.

      And we, watching, fired on. We anticipated pain

      as they welled in a demented cloud.

      Instead, they went to work on the women,

      and followed them, screaming, to the creek.

      And this one girl resurfaced—

      the pastor’s lessons fresh in her:

      in all things praise Him—screaming praises

      to the wasps, the pain, through her tears:

      Bwana asifiwe! Praise the Lord.