Shapeshifter
after Fiona Chamness
I was born in a hurry. Mother woke up waterbroke, and within 2 hours I was out– 8:30am, as if late for work. Father, seeing the leap, turned me into a frog. I jumped for days and mastered bug eating, but I couldn't stand the swamp, wouldn't croak, my neck all cicatrix since the slit. Grandpa turned me into a monkey but by then I'd fallen in love with my true name and was done dancing for the organ grinder. In elementary school the teachers turned me into a mockingbird but I wouldn’t stop singing. In middle school they turned me into a ghost but I wouldn’t wail on command, so they turned me into a dog until I bit the hand that fed. They turned me into a tortoise but I kept jumping out of my shell, stared them down with orange eyes and licked my wounds in the dark. When I got to high school they turned me into a bird of paradise. They beckoned for a mating dance but the feathers had long since been ripped out of my wings. I turned into a marionette and hobbled on slack ankles but I couldn’t find the puppet master. I got wet in the rain and huddled in caves. I turned into a wolf but I couldn't find a pack. I turned into a fox but I couldn't secure a den. I turned into a coyote but my throat went raw from crying. I turned into a bear but I couldn't sleep. I turned into a sparrow but I couldn't get my nest together. My brother turned me into a penguin trying to help, but I hadn't the blubber, fish or the brood. I turned into a falcon but my fear of heights stopped me from leaving my perch. I turned into a magpie but my roommate stole my jewels. I turned into a cockroach but the neighborhood had already gentrified and my landlord had the fumigators on speed-dial, so I moved to Japan and turned into a beetle. The schoolkids chased me with nets and their teachers kept calling me “a fine specimen,” so I turned into a tanuki. Everyone wanted to party but I couldn’t take the hangovers anymore. I turned into a red panda and lived off grapes until I met my mate. We grew fat in our bamboo forest while the news said to avoid gatherings of more than five. We turned to ibexes but a drought parched our savannah. We turned into tarsiers but loggers clearcut our grove. We turned into longhorns but the Texans kept eyeing our hindquarters and talking about steak. We turned into sea lions but they built a derrick in our ranging waters. We cough on the oil and the fish are harder to come by, but we’re taking our time; we want the next change to be our last.
Gahl Liberzon is a writer and educator in Long Beach, California. His work has appeared in The Museum of Americana and The Golden Shovel Anthology: New Poems Honoring Gwendolyn Brooks, and he has previously taught and performed throughout southeast Michigan, the greater Chicago area, and the greater Tokyo Metropolitan area.