Lisa Zerkle

SELF-PORTRAIT AS URSA MAJOR

See the frown lines bracketing the thin lips,
see the hideous whisker that glints
from my chin in too bright light? Repair these
frights, insist the glossies. Cover grays.

Or like the crafty auntie, wave away
the offending bristle with a quick, fragrant singe.     

Shall I be a knitter of sweaters?
Shall I be a sipper of tea? Read
the leaves—the moment I’m finally ready
to be seen, the world looks right through me.

Here I am (wrapped in my cloak. It’s practical, black).

Shall I repair to the trees?                                               

                                               If a woman is lost
                                                If a woman vanishes in the forest
                                                If an old woman disappears in the old
                                                growth. If the old growth vanishes
                                                If a woman repairs to the old
                                                (if a man disappears in the forest
                                                he’s camping)
                       

Remnants of ephemerals,
the girls are
hemmed about the edges
in their red hoods, but I
search deeper into dark                      

veined, vined,
for long-lived sisters.
Every hunter knows
mothers are the most
ferocious bears.  

I’ll repair to them.


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