I just discovered, these
are my hands and they have always been.
Torn cuticles, ridges. They were mine as I 
wasn’t chosen to cheer, was chosen to debate
and now as I hold a friend, a child, a husband and type another endless
endless complaint or behave a bit of ether.


These are my legs, surprisingly.
I thought by now they would be
willowly or enviable, but no they are brick surrounding our well
and mine, mine for years.


This head
I’ve dyed and shaved and curled
still I’m shocked it is mine.
How does it look this way?
Where did those torn eyes come from?
That mouth that someone said could offer him
his grandmother’s candy


This odd body I’ve had, 
It was supposed to change but never did.
I guess I didn’t have enough nerve for the knife
or enough desire to behave into the right
dress or sweater set.


this is age. How unsettlingly settled it is.