Jaguar Girl Her gaze is tipped with curare,   her face farouche from the kids’ asylum   where ice baths failed to tame her.   Her claws are crescent moons sharpened on lightning.   She swims through the star-splinters of a mirror   and emerges snarling— my were-mama.   She’s a rainforest in a straitjacket.   Where she leaps the sky comes alive, unleashed from its bottle.   My mother, trying to conceal her lithium tremor   as she carries the Amazon on her back,   her rosettes of rivers and oxbow lakes,   her clouds of chattering caciques, her…