fifty five at 55

by Maggie Graham

bohemian free spirit made peripatetic
daft with the weather
look homeward now and melt
silence on the other end
her mouth was opening with nothing to say

saddened by the low ceilings
among their fearful furniture
longed for my books and the sound of my own tongue
to see her again and suck violet-flavoured lozenges on the porch
bite off the affront of my lips

the beauty of her face was important
under her eyes there were adorable blue shadows
almost always a model of marital fidelity
when I wrote the book, I was married to myself
I never should've done that other thing at all

she retires under the piano
an insupportable heatwave passes through her body and explodes in her face
plunging her eyes into her memory
no sisterling
from time to time an unwarranted snap

lament of a maker
dark waters clouded over her
I can't see you any longer when I look
for me it is the crisis of my life
I do my best to say no more

marked what I wanted
I want it bright
though I wanted to do high kicks
I'm at the end of my strength
slender stream of fragrant steaming tea

tastes strong and acts strongly
its not my fault I've got a good memory
all this garbage is going to come back
we might imagine certain devices
these men are our woods

Ideal activity to heal mind hurt
clods untroubled by a spark
smog and the mist dispersing
am I not pretty?
things out of place are ill

waking to music I don't face
opposite of what I was before
chipped stone
the force of her own gift
the mystery thickens

art devoted to the pleasure of the senses
free to read anything I like
such recommendations are taken very seriously
all this now has been everything
to whom do you really matter?

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