On Aging

On Aging

I learned to hear your song

The breathing and the echo;

And when it dropped away,

I thought, for one deaf moment,

That I could never listen

To any other voice

                        from “A Poem for Kathleen Ferrier”

                        James Wright

maybe it’s this: choose who devastates

            you.  nothing random—it can’t be

            just any old animal—but canny,

            curious, a finger-tip ripple

            in flesh, in water, the extreme

            surrender to a dark road

            of an unlit know-where.

            come fully clothed—head/foot

            heavy leather and wool.  choose

            the first zipper or string.  jazz out

            of each layer of skin until

            every blemish rises to wet

lips.   kiss until all the cloth

drops away, skirt and shirt a pull

against the tipped shoe

            of old age.  sway between the wharf

            posts where the planks have

            rotted away.  because if after 

            all these years he’ll touch

            your soft body, soft the way raw

            dough is soft, I tell you, let him,

            let him spend the time looking

            for the mooring, for the moat

            of light at your feet—but listen—

            if you’re going to be devastated

            anyway, because something’s coming any-

            way,  be the one who’s blue

            black sky and somewhat cloud,

            so when you’re finally just skin,

            or moon and skin, he’ll work up

            at the feet first and wait

            for the little rain before he knocks

            on the door to come in—