
infinite inks, iguana’s inspire
innate impulses, instincts inborn
imprints indigo, indigo illusions
Poems, poets, poetry, writing, poetry challenges
infinite inks, iguana’s inspire
innate impulses, instincts inborn
imprints indigo, indigo illusions
I don’t mean to sound unkind, and I am far, far from perfect, as a father or man. But I have spent some time in your future, and hope to help you avoid some of what just ordinary life, and poor judgement and the next 20 years of wear and tear might do to you, as it has to too many of your older sisters.
For now, you revel in the intoxicating power your young beauty has to excite desire. It just landed in your lap —no pun intended— and by God, you’ll use it. And, it’s fun for a while. (You’re smart too, but that will last longer.)
Older women like to mock men’s appreciation for younger women. “You look ridiculous–” they’ll say “–panting after her like that. “Don’t you realize how ridiculous you are?”
Yes, we feel ridiculous a lot, especially when we’re reminded of it—and often when we walk by a mirror, so we don’t need more reminders. Do they, do you suppose?
But we realize it comes from losing the illusion of immortality, of hurt feelings, and fear of being left behind; from the cosmic unfairness of time slipping away, and also a realistic understanding about how men are suckers for a good visual. You feel you can’t win. Ever. Some days Sisyphus wins, some days the rock wins.
Actually, the rock always wins. It’s the same for us.
Over and over on a Ferris wheel, she will not come down,
have her meal, will not admit that she is afraid
that the contraption revolving around her heart may one day die.
She’d rather sit there, all hours, observe the heights
and the tops of towers, reach her fingertips up as she drops
to brush the illusions, feel the felt and wool of a god’s eyelash
she dreamt of the night before.