We all have so many pictures
of ourselves these days, our own
photography of us, on our phones,
on our tablets, our own portraits
taken for granted and in them,
I am a woman changed from who I was.
My hair, a graying color of bark, of limb
of Cottonwood tree, each of my eyes,
a well closing slowly as if the years bring
a squint to the world that determines
the end of water. My neck still smooth
like satin, but with the slight stretch of elastic.
What of it tells a story? It is not as obvious
as that of a giraffe however, but holds
years of breath and swallow, talk and scream.
All this body does, my arms, my back,
my toes. These shoulders pinned forward
in a lazy Friday slump, waiting
to stretch into more formal moments.
There is no easy way to eloquently say
something so trite as: it is hard to grow old
and still we must travel onward.
Liza Wolff-Francis is a poet and writer with an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Goddard College who is proud to have served two terms as a member of the Albuquerque Poet Laureate Program’s Selection Committee. She was co-director for the 2014 Austin International Poetry Festival and a member of the 2008 Albuquerque Poetry Slam Team. She has an ekphrastic poem posted in Austin’s Blanton Art Museum by El Anatsui’s sculpture “Seepage” and her work has most recently appeared in Steam Ticket, eMerge, Minute Magazine, Weaving the Terrain: 100 Word Southwestern Poems, Bearing the Mask: Southwestern Persona Poems, Poetic Routes, Poetry Pacific, Edge, and on various blogs. She has a chapbook out called Language of Crossing (2015, Swimming with Elephant Publications), which is a collection of poems about the Mexico- U.S. border. She loves breakfast food, popcorn and dark chocolate.
View all posts by lizawolfffrancis