When age sidles up, 
a final suitor,
let me turn 
and take it
without faltering,
the way my body
opens joyfully
to a man. Let me leave
whatever age touches
unaltered
the way I’ve never 
liked to wash 
right after a lover.
Better to keep passion’s
proof, its scent trails
and bruises, keep the light
on and watch time
have its way with me,
threading silver  
through my hair,
leaving a smoky gray 
that spreads 
between my thighs.
I want to see
my breasts deflate
like sacks 
my lovers’ hands 
have emptied
and laugh
as even laughter 
ruins me, crumpling
the surface of my face.