Dear Girl I Was,
Sadly, your fears never leave, though they multiply.
They never drift. They're burrowed in.
Examining your conscience remains excruciating,
and your secret sureties that you will never really age
or Be Your Mother sag like that satin sash too heavy
for the organza dress folded still in the dressmaking cupboard.
At fifty, the thought of fleas will unhinge your safety
like nuclear warheads disturb your sleep now
So, when you double your lifetime, scratch off
the fantasies of pioneering legislation, or draping
paper chains of peace letters from refugee children
on the giant pencil armaments.
You're merged with that fear, and the ones you shove away
are small, like conservative Supreme Court appointees,
trees dropping branches , and precious children in fast cars.
No comments:
Post a Comment