on aging

My ethereal, kaleidoscopic self is calling for my 30 year porcelain self to fall into tiny pieces and be swept up into Moses' giant dustpan of other broken idols and golden calves.

I cannot yet let go her firm arm . . . her supple skin, her full breasts, her un-scarred belly, her fertile hips, her wanting womb, her tiny waist, her defined lips, her smooth face, her bright eyes, her graceful steps, her idealized body, her youth.

I am not yet able to mourn her passing.

I will. I will.

It's time.
She's tired.