Jessica Lynne Furtado
SELF-PORTRAIT AS JURASSIC PARK RAPTOR
Bred for destruction, I’m bone-lust
and blood-hunger wrapped in a coat
of mail. I hustle a hint of fossil,
scales shimmering disco as I curl
small hands around man-shaped air.
Here’s a lesson in how to be light on your feet:
stand directly in front of me; don’t bother
running. I’ll be there before your toes
follow heel off the ground. I call this move
Velocirapture, hunting most things
that hunt the rhythm of body heat.
The sound of bones is not unlike memory,
ground down to the most digestible scraps.
I never attack the same place twice,
testing your fences systematically for weaknesses.
All greedy animals possess
a pining for something that glints.
When it cuts, there’s no time
to sharpen your own talons.
Red is a favorite color,
a promise of feast.
If you’ve never seen lipstick on a raptor
it’s because we lick ourselves clean
of evidence. I don’t claim to be an efficient
murderess, but I’ve been known to fulfill my own needs.
When the keeper claps open my cage
to deliver flesh-gift and a slit
of light, I narrow my sharp-shoot
marble gaze like the cleverest of clever girls,
marvel at my own bright smile
in the blink of a cow-eyed dinner guest.
You like me best when I leave a mess
of marks, anything but polite.