There are 123 days left until 40.
1 – 2 – 3
and like that I will be
Over the Hill.
Which hill?
The hill there
footsteps away?
The Tel?
Tell me.
It’s a curious time.
This tick tocking of clock
measured quietly
uncertain
alone
without labels I’ve grown accustomed to
a “Jean Val Jean” moment in time, says my husband.
“Who am I?”
1-2-3 and I will be 40.
Over the Hill.
Not Under it.
A blessing
Not dead becomes a blessing when
1-2-3
one is 40.
Remember when dead was unimaginable, unthinkable?
When youth was a fortress of solitude with its fangs sunk into the taut skin of our necks?
Sure, there was always AIDS hanging over our upper middle class halos.
And a little bit of cancer.
But now there is cancer
of everything.
It ate away at the fangs of youth — replaced them
Sunk into Breast. Stomach. Skin.
Now, there is the echo of anomaly
Brain. Lung. Ovary.
“What’s that?”
A tag. A growth. A lump.
1-2-3 and you become
Much too aware.
Too much care taken in the shower
soaping up lathering up the sides of once-breasts
Too much care taken in the reflection
smoothing sprouting silver down
Too much care taken in front of a lens
facing right, facing left, facing the side with less shadows.
Filter me.
1 – 2 -3 until 40.
Over Under but what about
On the Other Side
I hold out hope
that walking through the door of 40
is like opening the front door of the Gale farm
after a wicked storm.
1-2-3
technicolor works its magic
and life becomes more richly lived
in never before seen hues of
yellow green and blue.
* * *
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