Parchment
Yesterday a “guess your age app” pegged me at 61.
I’m 44.
I felt a brief, familiar cloud
Pass across my spirit
The mist of misogyny
Spritzing
As it does
And just behind the cumulus
Was the voice of a thousand crones
Reminding me that faces
Are nothing more than parchment
On which stories etch themselves
10,000 moments of joy
Have creased my eyes
Nearly to my hairline
Deepened the dreaded
“Parentheses”
Into a double rainbow
A warning of my easy laugh
The ripples across my forehead
Reflect years of expressive listening
Of goofing and performing
Silly and glittering on a burlesque stage
My freckles tell tales of
Summer camps and Hawaiian vacations
Of my Welsh blood
Striving to belong in sunny California
The furrows between my eyes
Document the sleepless hours
Spent in an ICU
And years watching the rise and fall of my son’s chest
Afterwards
The thought has crossed my mind
To fill, to freeze, to stretch
To wipe clean the slate
But the crone call is louder
Reminding me
Age is a luxury
An honor
A gift
And my face a badge
To be worn proudly
And so I will laugh and frown and twist my face into pretzels for a laugh
I will let the call of life
Drown out the siren
Warning of my impending obsolescence
Because I know the truth
My face reflects my heart
My trials and my roots
This punim is a gift to the world
Just as it is
- Jaime Jenett (c) 2020
No comments:
Post a Comment