A Self Portrait

A SELF PORTRAIT

I am made of butter, and, ironically, of metal bars
that conduct heat like baobabs in African savannahs.
I walk on velvet pads that veil my claws like carpenter's nails,
and, like butter, am the color of bananas.
I am strong. When I open my mouth, the world listens.
When I turn in the sun, off my teeth and hide it glistens.
I can climb trees like a vine and stalk my prey from camouflaged leaves,
and like the mighty swells that build and grow
across the ocean deep, my body heaves . . .
then pounces, down I come,
then, pivot, with alacrity, I pounce again
and haunches rippling, run.
I am like the early dawn
when the hills are bright with morning glow
and as the hours move toward afternoon
into the shade I slinkily go.

When I was ten, I had no arms and not a leg to speak of.
Round I was, and hard as rock, or porcelain,
and tough and yellow like a tiger with
long blonde hair of buff.
Lithe and agile, I prowled flagstones and sewers,
wide open meadows and thickets with berries
while my imagination mounted palominos
and rode among the cottonwoods and purple sage in prairies.
I told the world where to crouch,
and where to place a boskage with lilac fronds
and areas of fallen trees and sumac where they
bobbed above the muddy ponds.
I also snooped along the rosebushes
and picked Japanese beetles from their petals
and tread upon the clovers which wore bumble bees
and yellow jackets like living medals.
As dusk would settle in the trees,
a gentle touch across the rooom to me,
then, like now, is like an antidotos theriake.*

* An antidote to a wild animal.