Waiting Around--after “Walking Around” by Pablo Neruda

It so happens, I am tired of being a woman.

And it happens while I wait for my children to grow

into the burning licks of adulthood. The streaks

of summer sun have gone,

 

drained between gaps into gutters,

and the ink-smell of report cards and recipe boxes

cringes me into corners. Still I would be satisfied

if I could draw from language

the banquet of poets.

 

If I could salvage the space in time

for thought and collect it

like a souvenir. I can no longer

be timid and quiet, breathless

 

and withdrawn.

I can’t salve the silence.

I can’t be this vineyard

to be bottled, corked,

cellared, and shelved.

 

That’s why the year-end gapes with pointed teeth,

growls at my crow’s feet, and gravels into my throat.

It claws its way through the edges of an age

I never planned to reach

 

and diffuses my life into dullness�"

workout rooms and nail salons,

bleach-white sheets on clotheslines,

and treacherous photographs of younger me

at barbecues and birthday parties.

 

I wait. I hold still in my form-fitting camouflage.

I put on my strong suit and war paint lipstick

and I gamble on what’s expected.

And what to become. And how

to behave: mother, wife, brave.