Older Women

Reach in, reach in;

Reach down....way way down, past pretty boy phrases, and flip finger smiles.

Let him know a part of that part that's hidden deep; somewhere dark, and dangerous;
Somewhere where ink rarely goes, and then, only tenuously....tremulously, like
Untried cadence, and respectful pronouns, still capitalized.

That fire erupting and eviscerating part;
That claw back and fight-for-air-part that no one sees but him.
Let him know it exists, like you, still;

Past the fashion tips from thin cherubs who've never died twice, or passed one out of themselves,
After the stones you lived through in order to be able to say you did;
smug in their spaghetti straps, never fighting against gravity;
Past dire moanings of twisted pipes and pools of women-gut lives, seen, and patched up, and patted, rough girl style;
Let him see it shriek darkly and silently, shorn and torn;
Bereft and moaning, alone, later, Scotch in hand...stronger. 

Let him dig deeper....past the supersized selves and armour of flesh, floating and blanketing,
Hiding coal pit parts of you, mined and scarred, from eyes with no orbs, or worlds, aching to be run through, grain by grain, like those grubs you ingested to eat yourself back to acceptable, insanely.

Let that part out in terrifying bursts of sunlight and gloom, living Vogue cadaver that you thought
You might be more lovable as, shamed and standing there, with your woman breasts.

Let him feel that writhing, as you cleaned out the last bit of motherhood in you, like menopause,
Happier for no more goddamned bleeding, so you could finally love the fucker
And Feel Good, praying you could live through it - so you could live it, instead of
Dreaming.

Reach in, Row Wanda girl, he says to me,
And I pull out my own guts like William Wallace, wanting, at last
To acknowledge the succession of pikes, sans fish,
Winded and wandering, that will not meet
My eyes, even now.

Come, thin-Duked girl, he whispers,
Show them the cheroot,
The rolled gold,
The tried true have-enough, labouring;
The haunted smiles and gaunt girls, wizened,
Still not rich or thin enough, but smarter:
Relegated to the shrivelled and thin enough, at last;
Guilt free and
Fitted with darts.

"Yes", you intone to the phantom everpresent behind your eyes,
You think he might be able to
Take it all,
...and you let him
Adore the restraint, almost, but not quite, mouthing "alive", like a crash survivor, discovered. 

Stepping neatly and precisely out of the small flesh cave,
Torch aloft, feigning
Lady Lazarus,
You excrete

Pinache.