to not be sorry for the overgrowth
a free verse poem for Crucible: the stone womb of elderhood
Just like all the best hags in all the best old stories, she was both ancient and young at the same time. — Sharon Blackie, Hagitude
Today, for the first time, I did not apologize
to the massage therapist for my hairy legs, didn’t
say these are my winter calves. I just undressed,
climbed up and laid the dunes of my ass, the acreage
of my thighs, plush marsh of my belly, unbounded hill
of boobs down on the table. I mentioned the lipoma,
because I’m now marbled with fat, more valuable
than any Wagyu beef steak. I used to believe in bending
over, but the snaking loop-de-loop of my sacrum
no longer allows for that. Generous as Earth, I’m
getting fresh and thick, behaving in waves and
learning to let every crevice erupt with life. To
not be sorry for the overgrowth. I’ve had to fall
down a mountain, tear tendons, swell like a river
when rains come, lose the sure rhythm of my heart
beat and crawl into dark caves to come to terms with
my aging body. I’m not there just yet. I’m moving slow
as oak tree, flailing limbs in shifting winds, creaking
every joint. But I’m laying down bare now, allowing
someone else’s hands to help me. Just like all the best
hags in all the best old stories, I am ancient and young.
With plantar warts and crows feet that smile-face girl
I see…
