david jewell poet

words. photos. images. whatnot.

panther

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Panther

A panther looks me in the eyes from a cave in the back of my brain––
whether he is purring or growling is hard to say.
The thunder murmur from his chest and throat stays at low boil,
without effort, asleep or awake.
Whether it is a he or a she is also hard to say––
it seems to change back and forth––at times very feminine,
at times masculine––
always languid with a capacity for immediate
extreme brutality.

This panther lives in a cave at the back of my skull
and I would like to let it roam more freely through my body––
claw my heart––crawl through my bones––
leap out of my eyes or mouth as anger and passion,
move my feet,
turn my hands to claws.

If my body were as relaxed as the muscles of a panther at rest
there is nothing I could not accomplish.

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