………….I ran into a famous young poet, the tall one with large blonde
hair swept to the side.

………….I asked him what he was working on. He said he was reading
and thinking about tigers, naming several books with “tiger” in their
titles.

………….He asked if I had any recommendations of good tiger texts.

………….I realized I hadn’t read any poems about tigers, not even one.
I felt guilty. In fact, I hadn’t been reading much at all, so focused was
I on my own self, grooming excessively and picking at the dry, flaking skin of my heels.

………….I said: “I can’t think of any tiger poems right now, but if I come
across something, I’ll let you know.”

………….“Not poems,” he said. “Movies! Documentaries! Action!”

………….He told me he became very interested in stripes. He said he’d
learned of a place—a small village—that had a tiger attack problem,
and to catch the tiger, they painted the whole town yellow so that the
tiger’s stripes would be more visible.

………….Again, I felt a new wave of guilt for knowing nothing—
absolutely nothing—about the power of stripes.

………….I left the famous young poet, ashamed and lonely, and walked
in the forest of the night. Everything was tan, mostly tan. I was naked
and camouflaged, except for the dark brown mole on my right wrist.

………….Anyone could see the mole out in the open.