by heytherewildflower

tigra woman
In Siberian Russia, the human inhabitants refer to every tiger as “her” or “she” – similar to the west in the naming of boats and cars

The pelt she wears of skin and fur, at dusk
or dawn, is least visible to her prey.
If drugged and strangely shaved bald, her shorn husk
would bear the exact stripe the hairs display.

Camo’s twofold conceit obscures flesh twice.
The zigzag shroud makes the shape she takes change,
aspect spliced by her own design’s device.
Body’s stage, stripes and shadow rearrange.

She double dissolves in dark on the marks
cast by tree shafts on bald bleached rock.
Black swipes of pelt answer scars on bark,
fur’s orange mange, a halo where she walks.

The autumnal sylph forages to kill her meal.
Concealed by waves of claret field, she stalks,
inquiring with eyes of steel and molten daffodil,
she blinks like a ticking clock, licks her chops.

Do her veins run the same slice as the stripes?

Emblems of flesh share the price of hair.
Beneath stripes were stripes
born the memory of fur.


She double dissolves dark in the swaying marks
She double dark dissolves in the swaying marks
She dissolves double dark in the swaying marks
of swaying tree shafts cast on bald white rock.
Black swipes of the pelt echo scars on the bark.
bleeds into leaves as she stalks