Self-Portrait at 38

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.

More Poems by Jennifer Tonge