By Sanchari Sur


Your feline eyes reflect the sun, heaving
as the hair on your forearms, a reminder of
sweaty backed evenings, leaning into each other,

You call me a lynx, even as I claim to be
a leopard, or a panther. No,
a lynx, you insist, explaining the nuances between
my extremes, my savagery and
clemency, danger and
dalliance blended into a
molotov cocktail.

I wonder if this is your way of asking
me to be the lynx to your lion,
Beatrice to your Dante,
even though Dante was as fallible as
most famous men.

There are four types of lynxes,
you outline, narrowing me
down to an Iberian lynx, while I
long to capture your elusive
smile, smooth out your camera shy awkwardness
into a four by six. It’s the easiness with which
your lips find mine,
and mutually negotiate,
I wish to tame into a photograph.


SANCHARI SUR is a Canadian who was born in Calcutta, India. Her work has been published in Map Literary, Barely South Review, Specter, CURA, The Feminist Wire, and elsewhere. She is currently a PhD candidate in English at Wilfrid Laurier University and blogs at sursanchari.wordpress.com.

One response to “Wildlings”

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *