Half a Century
When I lived alone on the north coast,
I was slender as a glass of skim milk
and wore my house dress by the sea.
As I turned sideways in the mirror,
I was light blue to the bone. My hair,
dark as the gloss of a long-playing
record, yet I took it all for granted:
a rented, steel chair on which I stood
to comb wolf spiders from the ceiling,
to gaze at the bright margin of the bay
as long as I wanted to hold my breath.
How long has it been since I could reel
a lightweight emotion like a fishing line,
or let it meander like threads of beard
lichen greening the lowest arms of a tree?
Did I foresee how the red dust on my sill
overlooking the tall, shaggy eucalyptus
was a portent that my hair would lighten
to auburn in the sunlight, then one day,
strewn with silver in the undergrowth
from a lost blood meadow, the salt flats
changing into a hot desert overnight
without the monthly lunar cycles?
Don’t worry about it, I’d tell this girl,
a quiet wilderness in her pale floral
house dress. Your most fulfilling love
has yet to come. Do not worry.
