My Husband Will Never Know Me Young

July 9, 2006

Periodically, this thought seizes me with a paralyzing fear. Right now I feel completely estranged from my own narrative as I contemplate taking a job that will involve a comute to San Leandro, helping rich people acquire fine art, and earning more money than I have ever earned in my life. Everything comes at a price. Especially “the good life.”

Among the comforts of growing old
Is the creeping shrug that growing old is fine
But here is a bite that sticks:
Whoever he is, My husband
Will never know me young.

He will only hear the stories: hyperbolic, suspect,
How I drank to the brink of death
And roamed the continent,
All the nights I stayed up un-counting stars
As the dawn rolled in and yawned.

When he finds me I’ll be the toaster of pine-nuts
And the pourer of wine,
Slower and widened at the hips
Given to “turning in”
And he, in love with a raconteuse that was.


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