Tiger Wife Reflected in a Pond Never Trusted
Poem - by Andisha Sabri Carey
1. Struck Through the Reflection
White lilies on a black pond, resting on the surface
of a reel of film. Cinematic reflections of a silver sky,
the charcoal arms of trees, wavering. The scene looks down from above
in a fisheye lens
like silence, circular, manifested by the croaking of a frog.
Could you dip your toes in such a pond? A cold entry.
Could you be invited in? Shhhhh: it is only a dream.
It happens only in the circle, the ripples
interrupt.
The first shock of colour. A flash of flush pink,
a meaty tongue, flexing flat and scooping,
lapping at the fresh but faintly mossy broth
tastes froth of frogspawn limned
in moonlight against the void.
White teeth. A red red mouth laps up
the silver reflections of light.
Whiskers shiver and ears swivel back—
vulnerable to what
the shadows must conceal on such a quiet night.
A hunter draws from the quiver on his back, he
is colourless in the eye of the lake.
This is only a dream, only a wired night.
This is a ripple, a reflection.
He can draw so gradually, fire so leisurely, there is time
—as if underwater—
for a long, deep inhale. Stillness manifested by the release
of an arrow. Vibrant burst of red, pained snarl
—birds scatter. There isn’t time to be afraid
as the tiger is already here and she is dripping
dark velvet blood, changing substance, in pools and floods,
new matter inviting you in—don’t be afraid to enter—
Invited again, could you dip your toes
in such a pond? And feel the little bones
in your feet freezing and cracking
as they disappear into an abyss?
Wash the blood from the wound, remove
the dart from your morphing body. Healing
is a kind of metamorphosis too, just as morphing
heals. Become this body, dissolve in new matter.
The hunter is sorry. He is sorry—and it is also only a dream,
as only you can reassure him. Touch the stubble on his quivering chin.
You are the tiger now, have become the woman—reading
is a kind of metamorphosis too. The fabric ripped from his shirt
is wound tight around the wound. Some things that look the same
are not the same. You are not a cat—though your soft, striped coat
is plush and shiny, and it drags circles along the surface as you walk.
Circles travelling across the circle, ebbing outwards
‘til all is still, the surface black. There is no sound,
no reflection below the water but slivers of silver light,
refracted underneath—nothing visible to the camera
but the sway of a fin slicing momentarily
through the muddy fog. Above the water, seen from underneath—
a stolen meaty kiss. He is sorry, and it is also only a dream
—love blooming idly in flickering cinematic reflections
the hazy circle of a poorly lit dream.
White lilies on a black pond.
There is no dream, nothing is reflected. What light
through no window breaks—dawn,
orange and purifying, incandescent pink and gold
while blood dries brown and ripples still.
A white crane with a pink blush,
fat green frog pincered in spoonbill tongs
(now he will never turn back into a prince).
The hunter asks you to meet him in the village.
With no time to spare, it will all be arranged
both inside and outside of a shifting dream:
“Come as you are,” he says. “Don’t change.”
2. Tiger Bride
Silence broken and jumping about in pieces on the floor
village louder than you expected so much distraction and
bells of every size are ringing hurting ears with a
searing clarity that moves down your throat, down
your sternum, pling, pling, pling,
who knew a bell could rattle that sweet that close—
make it stop!
The warmth of the morning light is making you sweat—
it feels strange to be directly visible, accessible,
stressed, eyes undressing you, tail lashing
in quick jerking motions, a grumbling sigh
rumbles out the ribs, the shine of your fur rippling
over slinky muscles and bone.
This is the day of your wedding—a day to smile and weep—
the villagers gather in dyed wool, yellow and blue and red,
their comments pitter patter—inaudible and deafening as rain—
and your coat twitches with the sting of the droplets.
“His bride is a great beast, a sabre-tooth hellcat.”
The hunter rubs his eyes. Pretends not to see it.
He is sorry, says he needs to get more sleep.
But there is a smile at the corner of his lip, for you.
A secret that the hunter keeps:
the truth of his bride, the strangeness of their courtship.
For a game, for a laugh. You cannot laugh, you are a cat,
a dream figment, you are too slinky.
“He cannot be serious—he cannot marry what is not a bride.”
But then before all the villagers, the temple, the altar—
you disrobe your hide.
Shock and awe and anger ripple through the crowd
circles inside circles. Then they cheer and pling the bells,
throw rice, kick their heels. A human woman in a plush fur coat.
You are not naked and you are not beautiful.
You hold this soft body in your shaking hands.
When they tell the tale of this day, you will become
so naked, so beautiful. He is sorry.
You bleed through the bandage, a pink blush on your white, white dress:
you can be forgiving, laughing like a bell now,
stressed.
You are not the first two-bodied bride and you
will not be the last: this is not
the hazy dream of long and lonely courtship
by still waters and this is not your fault.
3. Peeled Bandages and Bondages
They all say he has caught such a prize, that he has hunted,
struck, and trapped a beautiful, blushing bride. But
you are carnivorous, blessed with sharp canines and a hunter’s eyes.
You will not be acted upon, are not the prey:
a cat is slinky and goes where it will.
He is sorry——these are not his words, not how he sees you
admiring your graceful movements, the danger coiled in your
tip toe step. He is gentle, he is kind. You are hunters
clad in fur, familiar with the beat of the wilderness,
the drum of the woods.
You are snuggled softly in a shared dream, a placid surface,
bloodstained featherdown, you eat with your hands.
You don’t get out of bed for days, and when that is over,
and the sweat has dried on your brow, you don’t get out of bed for days
again. And again. For pleasure, for pain. For thrusting and healing.
Lay your furs, your skin, out on the hearth to dry.
He is tender, he is kind, and you choose
to move gentle to the softness of his drum. He is a thrall,
captivated and trapped in his own home, his life a distraction
a broken promise a strange memory. There is a long unbroken togetherness
when he is only yours and you lick at one another’s wounds
4. You Cannot Become Any Less Than You Are Becoming
You say “I am long and lonely, take me to the woods.”
He twists his hands and says they say “you don’t do all the things
a good wife should.” Words fly past each other
like moths flying towards but unable to reach the moon.
The hunter is the chieftan’s son, there are roles to fill,
requirements. Perhaps, he thinks, he got married to soon.
You don’t know what it is you are not doing you only love and stroke the hair from his brow, stoke the fire, eat with your hands, resist the
rhythm of the village
resist the measured step of its dance the beats the requirements
you are loose and lonely
and he is sorry but the loneliness was never his
to take from you
(a stolen kiss).
Wounds heal,
and smells grow more familiar. You are free to come and go, you
are loved and beautiful, married to an important man who
sings your praises, sings beautifully, sings a deep baritone. But
you are not grateful enough stupid still not grateful enough you
didn’t know he was important only that he was gentle and kind——
smile, darling, and leave those thoughts behind.
You can dance when you’ve healed the crack in your anklebone
and it is wonderful to learn and you are open,
absorbent, willing
to metamorphose, become more of something else. Healing
is a kind of metamorphosis too. You keep the strip of fabric
torn from his own shirt, wear it against your innermost skin.
Growing is a process, it sometimes
hurts.
The steps turn, the dancers move in circles within circles,
you are slinky and graceful, your tip-toe step, playful—
you are watched by hunters’ eyes, a ballroom in a fisheye lens.
Going to bed, he says
“You did well today. You made me so proud.” A forehead kiss.
You are tired and rumble into sleep, into dreams. Your coat
of thick fur warmed by the fire
envelops you. Human fingers
could sink forever into a such a precious fur. Burrs caught
in the tulle of your gown, mud on your slippers. You are tired
as if you had been running the entire night, chasing something down.
All the villagers say you made quite the impression, that you cut
quite the figure. He will inherit all. All the villagers
are picturing you now, pink and shimmering in the chieftess’
crown.
Don’t frown.
Your flush meaty tongue flattens and flexes into new shapes,
forming syllables and vowels, new sounds a tiger’s maw can’t make.
Your hand is threading needles, kneading dough a tiger’s claw
wouldn’t rake. These skills enrich you, deepen
the shade of your forest. You are more knowledgeable, no less wild.
You are more than everything he’d hoped. And you will swell
to bear a child.
5. Circles Within Circles, Belly as a Fisheye Lens
They take you in with loving, watchful, jealous eyes. The women
stroke and plait your hair. You carry the chieftain’s grandchild,
imbued, for the better part of a year, with his flesh
and blood. You hold your little tummy in your strong and s-
steady hands. There’s politics at stake here you don’t understand.
A bean fights for life in your womb, uncurls its head and pushes
hands and legs and other extremities into the external space
of your uterus, big little feet doing long nauseous kicks at the inside
of your drum. Reproduction is metamorphosis too. You are hunter, you are mum.
Your body will be forever changed. Bodies do that—they make forever
changes. These are just vessels, but you can’t help being sentimental
ly attached. Six nipples on your outer, optional skin swell with the milk
of dreams. You are a walking egg on slinky tip-toe, incubating in moonbeams.
You are pregnant with something long, loose and lonely, wailing before
it’s born. The teeth the baby should not have graze your inner lining
with soft and gentle questions. The husband wraps you in his arms, in silks,
in velvets, eyes watering like fountains of love for what you’ve developed.
They see you prowling on the edge of the woods, blood-stained feathers
down your chin. You have a hunger growing within you that all the crops
could never satiate. Your shade deepens to shelter babe in canopies. Your
fearful clan, whispering in circles, in fisheye lens, fear the child is not
of man.
6. Of the Hearth
The hunter is praised for his skill with the bow, his eyes that track
and feet that know kinetically the winding ways of the river, the mountain
path. Sure-footed, brave, unrelenting. He is gentle, he is kind and he admires
the un-slipping friction of your paddy-paw, clung tight to the tree with
five needles, pine needles raining on the villagers below. You must relent
and rest by the fire. This is how it is done. How strong broods are born.
He is sorry.
You are not the first two-bodied bride and you
will not be the last: this is not
The hunter’s mother is a large, strong, quiet woman with gentle unintelligible
eyes. She sleeps in the long winter. Is careful and fierce, is honoured wise.
“I was ursine in my sunrise years,” she shrugs, stirring the pot before her,
enormous shoulders rounded and hunched. “You, my son, are not half
of anything. You are wholecloth, all your father’s man.”
He is sorry. He is big, hairy and gentle. He sleeps deep.
You are not the first two-bodied bride and you
will not be the last: this is not your fault
His cousin’s mother is slender and stubborn, rangey with a horned brow.
She goes foraging in the mountains for berries, has small feet, a hardness
to her temple. “She was hircine once,” the villagers whisper, “in her sunrise
years. Your cousins are the children of the hearth, the market square,
clad in wool. You are wholecloth, you are all your father’s men.”
He is sorry and it is also not your fault.
His great aunt howls griefs into the night, has vibrant amber eyes, knows
more than any, how to gang up. The women follow her in circles within
circles, closing in. Family is everything. “I was lupine once,
and would be still. Love is a sacrifice, made at will. A giving up
only wives can take. You are wholecloth tame——how do you know
the child will be the same?”
He is sorry, he does not know.
Take
the
leonine
coat
of
many
nipples
and
burn
it
in
the fire.
He is gentle,
he is sorry,
he is kind.
He also
burns it wholecloth
in an act not of love but maybe out of
care for you, out of out of he is sorry, he is kind, he
is selfish, calls it a kind attempt to keep you, to sanctify
your child. Who would know better than the other, elder brides?
Trauma
is a kind of metamorphosis too.
You
HOWL
agonies
7. Could You?
Your loneliness was never his to take from you. You take
the child within you, inseparable ‘til brutal parting, disappear in soft
bare feet, this
rough journey, these rocks and thorns, could not cut your naked body
more than grief.
Cool your burning in the brisk black brackish water of a still pond.
Could you dip your toes in such a pond? You will not transform back——
cannot leave this screaming body, this rage. It is all only a dream,
can only be processed in that narrow circle, that dream. If these agonies
could spread abroad, ripple out in circles within circles, they would bleed
over into every cloth with webbing speed, a blush of fury soaking forever
from a fountain of everlasting love. Contain it. If you can stop loving,
you can stop
being mad about it. The cold crackles up your bones, stills the yearning, lingers when you leave. The fire stays only in your skin, tinged with coal
black singes, hissing with heat with each tear dropping
from a hunter’s eyes.
You bear the child alone in the darkness, mud and blood churned together
as you clutch at tree roots, squeeze the hands of shadows. There is no fire
to warm you, only fear. The cub comes out wholecloth, all feline, suckles
cool milk from a warmthless breast, beads of condensation running down
your emptied chest. If this kitten can love you, maybe
that will fill the crater left by something
now removed. You need external warmth now more than ever, the cold is
numbing, freezes over pain, preserves it. He is sorry.
He is sorry. He is gentle. He is kind. Yeah, yeah—you get it.
Don’t exactly respect it.
So you sacrifice forgiveness to survive. The stillness
manifested by the release of sorrow. Form your flexible,
meaty, blanched tongue to clean the baby’s head.
This is only a dream, only a tired night, a tired
night, a tired night, many. There is no sound, no reflection, except
from the child. You are wholecloth homosapien, wholecloth monster. Weep
for you cannot train
your slinky wean to pounce. Whisper:
“There is something
there is something I have known
that you will never.”
Denouement: Reflections
It is winter so you feel nothing, no rage and no forgiveness. It is a season
of black and white survival
in which you do not bleed. He tries to track you with hunting dogs, brings
your skin.
He is in love with it, desperately lonely. The plush tiger scent,
warm and musky, cannot be used to track you. There is nothing,
your scent is obliterated by fire, left only on your old forgotten clothes.
The intimacy of this betrayal is
intoxicating. He puts his face against the betrayal—inhales.
Your cold footsteps are covered by powder snow. Only the child
is warm.
White snowflakes falling on a black pond, resting on the glassy surface
of a reel of film. Cinematic reflections of a silver sky,
the charcoal arms of trees, wavering. The scene looks down from above
in a fisheye lens,
like silence, circular, manifested by your eyes meeting unexpected
piercing
through a crystal haze. Pause—
any violence here would have to reach across a still, dark pond.
“I am sorry,” he says. And he means it, he actually is sorry—this part
is not a dream. The sincerity is revolting, it hits the right note,
the vibrations warm your bones enough to hurt them.
“I know,” you say. These are the words
your tiger-shod tongue
was formed to say.
“I want to give you back your skin,” he says. He wishes you warmth, security—he also took it away.
“You cannot.” It is simple. A cauterized wound does not need to heal.
To graft back what was lost would require a re-opening
of pain, a peeling back.
“Can I see my son?”
“You cannot.” It is simple. A hunter’s eyes would not see a child
in the rippling feline musculature, the twitching tail. He
will not be able
to see the child.
“Can I love you?”
“You cannot.” It is literal—something already tested, already proven.
This is an infinite withholding, a dam
of infinite blood——to not receive love, to not be porous, his words bouncing
off the shiny reflective surface of your cold, exposed skin.
“There was nothing else I could have done,” he says.
You laugh, and it is cruel.
You laugh in healing, growing, learning, swelling pains:
“You could have changed.”