Liza Wolff-Francis
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.
Saturday's Sirens 