When I went from 100% cheetah…
…to 13% cheetah
walking down my high school hallway, senior year, March 8th, 2007
I had my books in hand, stacked
up to my chin. I glowered
over them, green eyes watching
every boy who winked at me.
They all thought I was some freak
in bed, that I’d leave saliva beaded
in their leg hair, or claw marks
down their shins, draw my longing in blood
for the acacia trees back home.
They thought I’d make them feel
special or whatever. All of the girls
wanted the same, to peek beneath
my spotted skin, steal my un-lined cat-eyes
and land, always, steady on their feet,
home in their bodies no matter what
roots tripped them up.
Or maybe that’s what I wanted
high school to be—the veneer
of desire bright as my canines.
My eyes were so sharp,
my coat so plush. I never got cold
in the classrooms, had to look stupid
like that kid who wore a winter jacket,
in June, because her seat was under a vent.
I didn’t have to push my glasses
up my nose in gym class when sweat
shoved them down with his hands,
and ran faster down my face
than my feet could ever move.
I didn’t have a dent in my forehead
from when, while changing,
all the other girls grew
into a pack and pushed me in a locker.
I wouldn’t have taken that poor girl’s place
for all the rare meat in the freezer section
of the Giant Eagle up the street.
…to 35% cheetah
a diary entry, April 27th, 2005
Mom made me dinner
when I got home today:
mac ‘n cheese, no meat,
and so much seasoning:
basil, pepper, salt,
and those red flakes.
The doctor had said
I’d progressed a bit more
and maybe would stop puking
up anything a human
child would eat. Nope.
I bit my cheek and swallowed
my own flesh down
with the noodles,
nodding mmmmm,
and flipped on the TV
to America’s Next Top Model.
The girls were dressed
like the animals
I used to hunt back home,
and the gazelle looked
especially tasty. I wanted
to pull off her heels
and nibble her toes
to the bone, save
the lushest meat
for last. My rough tongue
lapped and lapped
my lips. I had to stuff
my mouth with my fingers
to force myself to stop.
…to 47% cheetah
ballet class, June 2nd, 2003
I sat on the grey PVC flooring and scratched
at my thighs, itchy in my tutu’s netted tulle.
My body felt like it did the time I climbed
a sweet thorn tree when I was three
and the needles pierced my coat and stuck
in my thumbs. That was the first trip
my parents took me on to show me
my heritage while they tried to figure out
how I happened. At least the vachellia karroo
was less painful to my paws than pointe shoes.
The sales clerk at the Dancer’s Closet
was confused about how to fit them.
“Are you sure she’s a danseuse?” she asked.
Of course, that was before the sleek feline
no fucks that came with senior year.
Then, I was still too cat to understand
the human world. I loathed dance,
but my parents needed me to release
my carnal energy before I crept into
their room each evening and sprawled
at the foot of the bed. They watched TV
with silent nudges and exchanged glances
of fear that confused me. When they
finally clicked the TV off, my watch began.
My eyes reflected in my mother’s full-length
mirror till dawn, when I’d yawn, bored
from the long hunt that, day or night,
never happened. Each time I entered the studio,
the first thing I did was run my claws along
the barre, marking it as my scrawling post.
