as I grow old
will the red of my hair
pull away with the tides
leaving me barren
and white, like the moon
above us, a mother
and a daughter to the earth:
I will have neither, even
great-grandchildren grown
tired and weary of adventure
will my bones become birdlike
releasing their insides
and sacrificing themselves
to keep my heart alive
will my mind give up
the practicalities and
formalities of language,
preferring rest to the
conventional beauty of
eternal hierarchy
and as I grow
older, will I still seek comfort
in glossy page of self-
hatred, masquerading
cleverly as wisdom, poisoning
the younger mind and leaving scars
that show even as on old skin
it lends invisibility to my
shining memories, of sashes and
party dresses, as I reach for the top shelf and
fall slowly, step by step,
onto the floor of my kitchen?