Valentines: “Self-Portrait as Manticore” by Oliver Brooks

Self-Portrait as Manticore

A priest, a punk, and a poet stand at the foot of my bed,
each self a blue-eyed beast I cannot evict from my head.

          The priest turns my blood to holy water, blesses
          my mess, dubs me sister of sphynx, and the room

spins. See my halo of stars? Wingless angels flock
to bare heads, so I wear a sturdy hat, a helmet,

          Papa Smurf’s Phrygian cap, or else hide
          undercovers ‘til the angels are gone.

Google “how to become a god.” Search results:
Always make the same mistake thrice and no more.

          Are you feeling lucky? I am. Psychosis is evident,
          says the priest, but the poet reports, The star halo

has vanished. The punk picks his nose: “Bazooka”
sure is a funny word, and blasts my ego to smithereens.

          Enter Ego death stage right! Dizzy at best,
          I become beast. Minotaur isn’t good enough

for me. I’m greedy, eat enough for three, have selves
to spare. Google “diagnosing growing pains.”

          Search results: Sprout claws, spines, fur. Search
          results: Watch sea green hair fade to kelpy yellow.

From the mezzanine, my mutation is just DIY
and eyeliner, but can’t you see, this portrait is a triptych?

          The poet aims to spirit me away before the punk
          takes over and curb stomps my superego.

I am all spikey appetite now. See me as manticore,
with lungs deep enough to roar. The lioness

          lies elsewhere, maneater with toothpick teeth,
          but if you draw a breath, draw a blade. No arrows

will shoot me down. So the poet takes up residence
in my cortex, heady as Chardonnay, and I spend

          all morning luxuriating on fur, Persian carpets,
          furniture showrooms’ four-postered, Parisian beds.

Hear the hordes of America write in—Survey says,
I can jump higher than you. Survey says, I can

          run farther than you. Survey snarls, Eat my dust!
          Aren’t I human-faced? See this overbite—no fangs.

The artist starves because he must ache for something.
As for me, I want nothing, and I shall have it.

About Oliver Brooks

Oliver Brooks (he/they) is a queer, nonbinary poet from Florida. He recently earned a BA in Creative Writing from Florida State University, where he will also be pursuing an MFA in poetry this fall. Their work has recently appeared in Antithesis Journal, Spellbinder, Inklette Magazine, and BreakBread Magazine. He can be found online at oliverbrooks.weebly.com or @OBrooksBooks on Twitter.