I. Lost
I’ve lost youth
somewhere between ages forty
and forty-two.
It escaped me, slinked out the back door,
hid under the dresser
like a cat.
That quality, un-nameable,
something magnetic:
a freshness of the face
brightness of the skin,
tautness of the muscles,
form that draws the eye.
That small thing I had to offer the world
a kind of currency
I didn’t realize I possessed
has suddenly gone missing
evaporated, disappeared,
is abruptly lacking.
Now I’m just a person
who squeezes her limbs into blouses, slacks,
drives to work with a coffee mug sloshing
returns home with a grocery bag,
filled with frozen pizza and fatigue,
puts the kids to bed at eight,
sometimes musters the energy
to read three pages of a novel
before passing out on the couch.
I guess I’ll live for myself now
or rather, for my family.
Rest on the laurels of a few decades
invested in marriage, children,
since no one else is going to want
this old woman’s face, thinning hair, lumpy body.
The possibility of new love
whose hope must have always been hidden underneath
like a dormant seed, never before articulated,
has departed ungraciously,
flown the coop, vanished without any goodbyes
no farewell hugs or well-wishes.
Yes, I know.
I should let it withdraw gracefully
without clinging, without regret.
Wish it well.
How mature that would be, how wise.
The natural way of things, of course.
And yet, I couldn’t help myself:
last night, I put out a can of tuna
on the back step.
So far, the cat’s not come back.
II. Middle Age the age of nothing new
no crisp notebooks, fresh pencils in September
no love affairs, waiting by the phone
or disguised glances across the bar
no new bodies to discover, the unbuttoning of collared shirts
no pregnancy tests laid across the bathroom counter
or new sensations, feeling the little kicks, the twinges from inside
the anticipation of meeting that squirming, familiar stranger
rather
pants hung in the closet, no longer fitting
bifocals hidden by the bedside table
heavier foundation, more hairspray
wide, ugly shoes made for bunions
a medicine cabinet filled with bottles for new ailments
no adventures, no new challenges
the most I can look forward to
a vacation at the beach
or a new job
an adjustment to the commute, the routine
here, take it— my life
my forty hours a week
the remainder of my days for sale
how exciting, this voluntary slavery
let’s work until we die
until we are fully spent
for months now
my nights have been blank and absent
of dreams
III. March
A fading, colorless day
the season of in-between
half-frozen mud, last year’s dead leaves
green-lichened oak tree
trampled, brown grass
the sky bleached, fatigued
bare tree branches, sharpness quivering
not a season of beauty
but of awkward transitions
a backward adolescence
no one sings its ballads
no child daydreams wistfully of its opaque hours
beauty depletes rapidly
the invisibility of the aging woman
what was once brilliant and gleaming
a jewel to be coveted
or beloved as a crocus, squinting purple beneath the snow
is now dull and drained of mystery
days strung out
the job, the labored hours, the highway commutes
twenty-five more years, at least
waking up on the same side of the bed
going through the motions of motherhood
the torpor of Saturday morning sex
life’s remainder laid out in its neat squares
like those early days of March
we are stuck in the mud
this should be the season of beginnings
the time of what is green and new
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