I, who alone survived, move through
my old age like a camera
in the hands of a hard-core realist
bending over knucklebones on the lawn
or the rot of a long-dead red squirrel
after the snow has melted.
The landscape of my body up close
is one of snags and glaciations.
You can see the path of a forest fire
that devoured one breast leaving
the other shyly hanging in space,
my still abundant hair whitening,
my almost bald pubis still useful.
We had planned to age elegantly.
The Japanese twins who lived to
one hundred and seven could not have
outdone us cruising Fifth Avenue in
our custom-made shoes, our handsome
obedient Dalmatians heeling beside us.
Hatless, earringed, no sign of scoliosis
we’d planned to stride forth block
after block, well-published, polished.
Bad girls of the New England Poetry Club
our wit and fame up ahead
leading a procession of disciples.
from The Long Marriage, W.W. Norton, 2002
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