The Woman at the Washington Zoo

　　by Randall Jarrell

　　 The saris go by me from the embassies.

　　 Cloth from the moon. Cloth from another planet.

　　 They look back at the leopard like the leopard.

　　 And I. . . .

　　 this print of mine， that has kept its color

　　 Alive through so many cleanings； this dull null

　　 Navy I wear to work， and wear from work， and so

　　 To my bed， so to my grave， with no

　　 Complaints， no comment： neither from my chief，

　　 The Deputy Chief Assistant， nor his chief

　　 Only I complain. . . . this serviceable

　　 Body that no sunlight dyes， no hand suffuses

　　 But， dome-shadowed， withering among columns，

　　 Wavy beneath fountains--small， far-off， shining

　　 In the eyes of animals， these beings trapped

　　 As I am trapped but not， themselves， the trap，

　　 Aging， but without knowledge of their age，

　　 Kept safe here， knowing not of death， for death

　　 Oh， bars of my own body， open， open！

　　 The world goes by my cage and never sees me.

　　 And there come not to me， as come to these，

　　 The wild beasts， sparrows pecking the llamas' grain，

　　 Pigeons settling on the bears' bread， buzzards

　　 Tearing the meat the flies have clouded. . . .

　　 Vulture，

　　 When you come for the white rat that the foxes left，

　　 Take off the red helmet of your head， the black

　　 Wings that have shadowed me， and step to me as man：

　　 The wild brother at whose feet the white wolves fawn，

　　 To whose hand of power the great lioness

　　 Stalks， purring. . . .

　　 You know what I was，

　　 You see what I am： change me， change me！

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