i.t.

this isn’t me
the me i know is seven
     maybe eight or ten
she is thin and muscled
with hairy legs and large cheeks
      “jowls”, mom called them
freckles and bowl cuts and sometimes
a boy
she was adventurous
     without fear or airs

when the jowls started to fade and the lashes to fall
power came like a lamb
     laying itself down for slaughter
she took it in her arms and
let it stitch itself to her
faerie floss fur woven tight into her own
the seal was broken
     off the fine austrian wine
and then i.t. crept in

i.t. drips hot sugar
i.t. creeps in on dainty feet,
     no longer crouched claws
i.t. would rather die than have jowls,
     i.t. was angles and sex alone
i.t. is dirty light, not as dark as
before, she is what the power is
strong yet soft, balanced
     still a cat

          but now with cloven hooves  

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