The port side of her chin has got a crease
as if impressed by linen on her skin,
but it’s instead a mark of years, a piece
of lost elastic collagen within.
And yet that visage hosts a blemish too:
a pimple on her nose that’s hardly fair,
as if at 44, she’s going through
a teenage episode of skin despair.

So she massages, lathers, rubs and creams
a face that aging dryly sculpts in rows,
resisting scalpel, needle, all extremes –
for she who wasn’t pretty younger knows
that openness, receptiveness and laughs
will suit her more than toxic shots or grafts.

This entry was posted in Aging, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s