Rilke’s Panther Befriends Me
I once read that the poet Rilke saw
a caged panther in Paris, with fur like night.
The animal’s pained eyes were yellow rooms.
Ill and shut in myself, I sensed the creature’s will
denied. When metal bars seem to last
forever, the lure is to cease counting years.
Rilke had learned to look anew that year
he wrote the panther’s poem. The poet’s sight
held viscera, skin, heart—until at last
the trapped creature looked back at him. At night,
I weighed these thoughts, read the poem again, and willed
the rough-tongued, heaving animal room
for afterlife. Now, the cat soars through rooms
of sky, roars at stars, and recalls old years
of midnight hunts. He springs his unbound will,
and comes to condole with me. I can see
his paws, claws withdrawn like switchblades. By night,
he surveys me in my bed, and at last,
tilts his head in friendship. I’ve borne this lasting
illness and the gloom, alone in my room
so long. But with Rilke’s panther, at night,
fear subsides, as we have both known years
encaged. He, with strong bones and polished coat, sees
my scars, my fickle limbs, this numb will.
So, I sit up. The animal, willing,
lifts a curtain from his pupils. There’s lasting
insight in his eye. On his haunches, he sees
my potential coiled, tail-like, in this room,
surrounded by the silt of worn-out years.
The panther says we’ll leave this hurt tonight,
and I, tucked into the creature’s heart by night,
climb the clouds with him and feel his pulse. We’ll
gallop, hear the river that in years
past Rilke called grey silk. And here, at last—
in Paris gardens once again, with rooms
of blooms—we’ll touch the roses Rilke saw,
while Paris finds the sun. Night cannot last—
we’ll shed these pelts of grief. In the petaled rooms,
the panther lends his eye. He knows how much I yearn to see.
a caged panther in Paris, with fur like night.
The animal’s pained eyes were yellow rooms.
Ill and shut in myself, I sensed the creature’s will
denied. When metal bars seem to last
forever, the lure is to cease counting years.
Rilke had learned to look anew that year
he wrote the panther’s poem. The poet’s sight
held viscera, skin, heart—until at last
the trapped creature looked back at him. At night,
I weighed these thoughts, read the poem again, and willed
the rough-tongued, heaving animal room
for afterlife. Now, the cat soars through rooms
of sky, roars at stars, and recalls old years
of midnight hunts. He springs his unbound will,
and comes to condole with me. I can see
his paws, claws withdrawn like switchblades. By night,
he surveys me in my bed, and at last,
tilts his head in friendship. I’ve borne this lasting
illness and the gloom, alone in my room
so long. But with Rilke’s panther, at night,
fear subsides, as we have both known years
encaged. He, with strong bones and polished coat, sees
my scars, my fickle limbs, this numb will.
So, I sit up. The animal, willing,
lifts a curtain from his pupils. There’s lasting
insight in his eye. On his haunches, he sees
my potential coiled, tail-like, in this room,
surrounded by the silt of worn-out years.
The panther says we’ll leave this hurt tonight,
and I, tucked into the creature’s heart by night,
climb the clouds with him and feel his pulse. We’ll
gallop, hear the river that in years
past Rilke called grey silk. And here, at last—
in Paris gardens once again, with rooms
of blooms—we’ll touch the roses Rilke saw,
while Paris finds the sun. Night cannot last—
we’ll shed these pelts of grief. In the petaled rooms,
the panther lends his eye. He knows how much I yearn to see.
September 2025
Veronica Ashenhurst has published both poetry and articles on legal education. Her poems appear in Health Affairs, MORIA Literary Magazine, Star 82 Review, and Wordgathering, among other journals. Her poetry has been nominated for the Best of the Net anthology.
Art: Ellen June Wright, Diptych #1306, #1509, watercolor on paper