Self-Portrait at 38

Jennifer Tonge

Hair still Titian,

but Botticelli's grip has loosened—

not now Rubenesque,

and probably never;

Ingres approaches,

but Courbet might capture me.

Could I be surreal?

It seems almost likely—

bells in my ears

and fortresses under;

cones have been set on my eyes.

My spring is gone

and summer's upon me,

rude in its ripening.

I'm espaliered, strung wide and tied,

pinioned, and thus can I fly.