Anatomy of Aging



I’m old enough now to rust.
Mother, still here, grayer, still gives me things
at ten she bestowed. Gout attacks me
whispering, when I’m sleeping. I think
of my father, still here, still giving
advice, he, wiser than I was, wiser than I am.
At night the dark frightens, its fingers poking
me into awakening; this will never change. I sleep
alone; this may never change: if I marry,
she will say I’m still young, give me things
I never received at 10, visit me in a whispered
language, shape me into realizing she is here
and never fear the dark or its nosy fingers.


Anatomy of Looking Out the Window



Cars are wrestling, honking, childish. Autumn,
its usual orange and yellow, signifying next season’s
becoming white. Rocking in the chair given from my mother,
I’m imitating seasons’ movements. Clouds from the east
indicate wetness entering in divided deliveries. Main
Street houses two types of people: coming and going:
found and lost. Dusk’s unalterable gray
blankets my town like the quilt atop
my shivering thighs. My eyes turn closed,
ghosts appear. Grandmas, Grandpas, raising me
from across mountains, behind garbage cans,
underneath the earth’s dirt, put there by disease.
Looking out the window, reflections of things
I cannot forget.


Anatomy of Shaving



The face must be washed,
a turning of the back on the unsanitary.
Laid out like resting baby ducks
atop the countertop: razor, cream,
mug, and brush. Polygamy takes place:
the face, narcissist, king waiting to take
his harem: cream to mug to brush to face,
ending in the mirror’s staring reflection.
The razor becomes artist—
each three-inch stride across the neck
and cheeks, takes away, making sculpture
out of marble, man out of beast. The face
must be washed, a closing of the pores takes
place, signifying closure of the act.