Schizofeliformia - Poem by Fox Everett
In the sun my pupils narrow to graphite slivers,
Loping among the dead steel oaks I crouch, a cautious beast,
The snarl, the growl waiting impatiently
in my ashy throat, causes the corners of my mouth to twitch and vibrate, restless;
the froth behind my tongue thickens and whips itself into a bubbly foam I can feel slipping warm from my wet lips.
My mane is not the glory it once was; its shagged and tatty remnants I have flung as a veil over my face,
Shielding me from prying and intruding stares of ugly and forgettable strangers.
I have lost so much: my regal coat, my cubs—my pride, one could even say, but not my honor.
No, none will be witness to a moment of doubt, though I have seen many laugh at the spectacle:
The crazed lioness, the mad panther.
I send a whip-necked glare a young man's way at the bus stop, and he shrinks.
I smile yellow-fanged. No one looks me in the eye, I tell him.
Not I, not my amber-dropp eye.
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