At the top, I saw the lion leap from below.
Even from above, he looked three times
my size: his fur burnished copper,
his mane flapping against his cheeks
like wings.
I froze, still running in my mind,
but my body was planted, eyes throbbed
in rhythm with my heart, fixed
on the lion gathering ground with his front paws.

And just as he sprung to tackle me, I screamed,
and saw my reflection in his eyes.
I awoke, kicking my legs, yelling.
My mother got into bed with me
and sung me to sleep.

***
When I was twenty-four, I bought a gourd
in October because it fit the groove of my palm.
I set it on the window sill to dry.

In February, I dreamed of a lion.
Through the fire's aureole, he
paced then crouched, tail slapping the ground
eyes following me
while I danced in a ring, singing, "Hey, Ahh, Hey."
I rattled as I spun and watched him whirling by.
In the morning, I walked to the window sill, picked
up the gourd and shook it once.
Seeds rained crisp against its sides.

A week later, I read about a woman who
could mentor me in journeying to parallel worlds.
Over the phone she said, "Bring a drum--or a rattle--
if you have one."

***
In March, I drove 12 hours through
relentless rain to Toronto,
to learn spirit flight, to converse with the gods.
In a seedy hotel, I could not sleep, feeling afraid,
thinking, "tomorrow, I should just go home."

But the next morning, in a stranger's basement,
I sat in the North,
shaking my rattle, sage smoke lingering.
I felt trance awakening me as the shaman-lady
whistled to the seven directions, calling
in the allies.
And when the drum beat came, loud
and monotonous, I stretched,
fully lucid, extending my spirit's limbs,
pulling myself out of the body
which lay tingling on the floor.
Down a tree root into the earth I wound,
smelling damp dirt.
A dot of white grew larger until
I emerged into a place of light.

A lion twice my size jumped onto me, knocking
me down. I felt his warmth and weight as he licked
my armpits, my breasts, my face.
My hands tangled in his mane;
we rolled over and over
each other pressing closer, biting what our mouths found:
tufts of hair, whiskers and skin.
I rode on his back up moist, grassy hills
then over canyon lands baked dry and hot
in the sunlight. As we looked out across
the red rocks, standing side by side,
he smoothed my hair, and said,
"At last you've stopped running from me."