May I live long enough to be
an old woman. After the long battle
against anti-aging cream and the plastic
sex nymphs on glossy magazine covers is lost
and the world’s disinterest will allow me to be a whole
person again – as whole as I was at seven years old,
smiling and sun burnt, hair knotted in tree sap –
it should suit me just fine.
I think I will be braver
at seventy. When life carves its name
in the bark of my face like hearted lovers’ initials
and my vanity – no longer swollen with flattery
and delusion – shrivels in the absence of cat-calling,
I fully intend to become a shameless flirt.
There is a whole depth of self
only years can realize. I want
to become wise and well-read,
blessed with pervasive reflection.
I want to know all the things
it takes a lifetime to learn.
Photo by Edward S. Curtis
How do you imagine you'll be different at, say, age seventy than you are now?