Etruscan Chimera In Bronze

Like the experimental cloning mouse,
a human ear astride her fragile back,
your second, gentler head arises,
hanging in defeat (which goats are used to);
long, limp neck centered on the spear-toothed spine.

Your tail: third head, a whiplash in mid-strike,
clamps serpent fangs around one sweeping horn,
the other prong compelled to pierce the flesh –
your skin like darkened pearl or bleeding stone,
like light on water, quivering at rest.

The lion’s jaw is made to hold your roar,
its shape a low-keeled boat, a peeling rind.
Who fashioned how your foremost face would look,
your mane of pointed fish scales, layered leaves,
the spreading petals centered at your throat?

Who pieced you into being, patchwork beast?
Who wove thin shadows through your starving sides,
decided that the world could not provide
a monster of sufficient savagery
to pit against the heroes of the day?

Dark portent pulsates in the wild, wide sockets;
the sad chasm of your silent mouth
knows all too well the fate for which you breathe.
The Pegasus treads ovals in the grass,
Bellerophon is sharpening his spear.