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I accepted I would transform as I age,
crave the symphony over indie
and alternative rock concerts,
that my preferences for
edgy boots or sparkly tennis shoes,
funky skirts and dangly earrings,
would abate.
The stealthy yearning to tattoo coat
my body should evaporate.

All my childish loves –
consuming novels like tea,
incredulous regard of
leaves and bark,
painting nails darkly,
earnestly pinning words down –
would spin away.

Along with my shape bleeding out,
every line softening
with the passage,
my features mothering over,
I would molt the youthful desires.

A turn to pudding,
bowls lined up neatly in the fridge,
saran-wrapped and
ready for clean spoons.
Everything easily digestible.

The reliable, hard-working,
and unfaltering,
must look and feel different
than how I floated
softly in skin still malleable.

I had failed to notice
my existing penchant for
studiousness,
unbroken employment,
thrift,
my habit of promptly paying
bills in full,
being where I said I’d be
on time and ready,
paired just as surely
with jeans as pinstriped suits,
with Neko Case as Mozart.

Although I am transformed
by years,
I am still.

 

March 2014
Julie Ayers

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