PLASTER CRACKS
One of those unexpected glances
A happenstance mirror
The old lady looking back at me
with curves in places
like her face
and craggly bits about the eyes
Who is this woman? She
looks off her feed, or depressed
No, I replied, it’s just you, ya old bag
Your fault for smiling so much
For choosing to live with your depression
rather than finding a way out
And so I settle into almost sixty years old
I let gravity, cruel mistress, have
her way with me
It used to be boobs and the
skin over my knees becoming
a canopy for bone beneath
Now it’s the more obvious sites
The ones one cannot hide under
clothing, beneath makeup
It’s the glorious blooming of
A New Amy, crone delighting
in the fact that she can still.
make new things, such as wrinkles
© 2016 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
It’s true. That little sag under my jaw, the crows’ feet that have morphed into Crow Valleys. It’s happening, and I can either get pissed at God (which seems quite useless, and I owe God so much) or dive in, feet first. I choose the dive.
This is for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Play It Again, Toads. One of my poet buddies, Fireblossom, had a previous prompt called, “The Crack in Everything,” and we have written to that prompt. Thanks, Shay, for always being an inspiration! Love, Amy
Sharp Little Pencil 