No one warns a woman about the quiet
milestones--less celebrated than Double Digits,
Sweet Sixteen, Twenty-One, and the year
our insurance payments decrease dramatically,
magically with the turning of a quarter-century.
The Silent Others we don't mark until they're behind,
sometimes years gone--
the passage from Maiden to Matron;
the moments that sneak up behind and whisper
"You've missed your youth." Your washboard belly,
your innocence gone for good, but you don't remember
ever having fully appreciated that form of beauty.
You spent an inordinate amount of time shamefacedly
focusing on your spindly naivete until you found yourself
entrenched in this new form of loveliness.
You'd better get cracking learning to believe this frame
and faltering wisdom are desirable in whatever forms
you need to be found desirable.
What a loss to waste this time, find yourself
silently, irretrievably lost; tenuously alien again.