Teeth gilded and a little red in claw,

the panther tries on every heraldic and non-heraldic

hue: or, gules, purpure or vert, copper, orange, or shocking pink;

opts ultimately for the classic cool and chivalrous sable black.

Jet, coal-tar black, shiny as anthracite,

not matt as the hairy backs of goats. Black

as the oil that bubbles from the sand in Iraq

and fills the genie’s lamp, bit of a rainbow smeared in it,

black as the desert sky at night, black

as a burqa; black as the little

shiny chiffon dress she wore to the prom

the night she was molested by the judge.

Black as a judge’s robes, and cap, and heart.

Black as the curtain between man and beast

that lifts when we are dead.

And on her shield she carries in escutcheon

a fully-kitted-out image of herself,

teeth gilded and a little red in claw.