I was convinced I was a
little, timid, grey mouse
who hid in cracks and squeaked only sometimes,
scurrying from doorstep to skirting,
skidding helplessly and always scared.
Soon, my mouse coat got all spotted and mottled and
had unbecoming brown patches.
A little mouse but not cute and little
because I paled in comparison
to her.
She was the cutest, diddiest,
sweetest, purest, most innocent mouse,
with combed, silky whiskers
straight and blonde, while
my ugly mess was knotted and could never
be tamed or fixed with pins.
But I managed, after years of shrinking smaller
and smaller,
and tiptoeing quieter
and quieter
(my tiny pitter patter so soft
I forgot I was even in the room sometimes),
to escape from the mousetrap.
Now, when I look back and think
about her, the perfect mouse,
the one who made me shrink
even smaller than a sleeping
dormouse,
I realise that she was not
a mouse at all:
she was a slim, stealthy, slithering
snake. The smooth whiskers were
the sharp fork of a tongue and
the coat that shone was
an endless stream of scales (I don’t think she could even penetrate herself).
I do not blame myself, now,
because she was so subtle and sly and slippery
that there was no way I could have known until
I crept out from that dark hole.
Now, when I look back and think
about my poor little mousey self,
I shed a tear for how small
I let myself shrivel.
Now, I wear big black boots
and I pound the ground so other creatures
can hear me
but louder than that
I can hear the heavy vibrations in my big paws
making waves in the air, filling up
space.
A self-assured and loved lioness
whose unruly ginger hair is not mottled or tangled
– it is a great thing to defy pins –
and I know people hear me, because I
can hear myself.
After all these years I realise
I am not a mouse, most certainly not a sister
of that snake –
I am a lion. And I was a lion all along.
Image courtesy of Kong Jun
Categories: Poetry
This is a beautiful piece!
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Thank you!
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