The
Panther
He sat in my furnished
one-bedroom apartment
each night, right leg
draped over the wooden arm
of a seventies-era chair
talking, while I suffered
in sexual heat. Sometimes
I felt him move on foot
through the dark city and I left
to seek him in the streets,
taking on the form of a black
feral cat, though that made me
too fierce for him, too
vicious and brutish.
It startled him.
Even so, sometimes
we merged, corpuscles
and molecules bending
to allow it, a fact I had
no faith in the next
morning. Sometimes
he waited beneath my bedroom
window, which was barred
against him like a western
jail cell. Dust blew
through metal slats. I sat
naked on my bed
helplessly surveying my image
in the mirror. My body,
my breasts were meant
for him, only for him, and he
was an illusion. And so
the weeks passed.
The Visitor
A spirit flew to me
took me prisoner
tied me to a wooden
chair left me
at a metal table
painted green
a panther entered
and became a man
he tied many knots
in ropes that stood straight
up by themselves he filled
the air with them
chanting
this might prevent
my escape
this might protect
me
am I still there?
if not how did
I slip away?
was that the plan?
if so
I am ready
Trance Song
You are a jaguar
ready to show me
the earth’s
sorrows
You are a jaguar
ready to show me
the earth’s
strength
You are a jaguar
ready to take me
to any world I wish
Run at my side
I will run with you
Fly in the sky
I will follow you
Hide in the long grass
I will find you
Jump over the mountain
I will leap with you
Jaguar leaps and Jaguar runs
Jaguar shows me beauty
Jaguar trots and Jaguar swims
Jaguar protects me
Where is the path
Where is the path
That takes me to your door
Where is the path
Where is the path
That takes me to your door
I’ll
find the door
And make my way to you
I’ll
open the door
And make my way to you
Margaret Coombs is a poet and retired academic librarian from Manitowoc, Wisconsin, the city of her birth, which is located on the western shore of Lake Michigan. Her first chapbook, The Joy of Their Holiness, was published in 2020 under the name Peggy Turnbull. She now uses her birth name as her pen name to honor the poet she was as a young woman. Recent poems have appeared in Wisconsin Poets Calendar, Amethyst Review, and Medusa’s Kitchen. She is a member of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets and the Science Fiction & Fantasy Poetry Association.
The vivid images in your poems make them so memorable. Congratulations my poet friend!
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