In a mini-zoo one night
a caged jaguar screams
a sound unformed by tongue,
amplified by rib bellows,
pressed through iron bars
until it shatters my tourist sleep,
brings me to the animal’s side.

Once jaguars slid silently through
this jungle, spots rippling tall grass
vertical as swords. Their cries echoed
nine times in temples bearing their names,
and priests bent in fear and gratitude
offering sacrificial hearts to holy jaws.

What can I know of a caged god’s needs?
The intrusion of my eyes breaks his patience,
sends him in circles on Nopalli-sized paws
to scratch scars in gray concrete. He
bellows again from his grassless cell,
sprays, as if at any moment he might
ignite, burn in his own water, and ascend.

The hotel believes he is a charm
on our vacation bracelets, exotic
to watch as a museum piece, eyes
studded with jade. But alone
at his dark cage, far from hotel lights,
real eyes warn me away. I’m not
the one he’s calling. But tonight,
I’m the one who answers, the one
who remembers to bring a heart.