I Am Prone to Growing Old
These lines might declare
that I no longer fear it, but I boast
like one who wields
new weapons—
all bravado, flourish, and strut—
while inside I’m gripped
with recoil, knocked back
by pushback of any kind.
Or maybe I’m too tired
to drag this plough
any deeper into shadow, maybe
I want to rest. Maybe
I want to weave even darkness
into soft, heavy blankets
with which to build a nest. Colder
the winds that blow now,
closer to the bone. Crow’s feet.
Lost teeth. Slipping
memories, one by one. Diagnoses
and crises of every …
