Terri Brown-Davidson – Ⅳ
Age Song
My husband’s eyes, luminously blue, flicker and cool
in a fast wedge of shadow that, darkening his face,
elongates it, reduces it to bone and bristle, to flashes
of glare parenthesizing his mouth.
I dismantle him in his own dissective
games that he cherishes, craves,
playing with all and sundry.
I attend the sloughs of our gray skin
cells littering fresh sheets,
transmogrifying in white washes of light
into a pooled, filthy radiance
I can’t swallow or taste. In early-morning light,
my husband’s eyes are nothing like the sky.
Blue, not azure,
not periwinkle, not cerulean,
they gaze red-lidded
with the ruined-dun aspect
I associate with the sad or craven
though we’re neither decrepit nor Scottish,
my soul mate and I,
simply aging predictably in the loose flesh bags
we once called our bodies
Eating oranges for breakast, the yellowish dripping juice
staining our fingers, we fumble, suddenly, for napkins,
blot our chins, lick our lips, glance at the two shining
glasses topped off with fresh milk, wax poetic
then, laughing prophetically, grasp the small
slick scraps of orange littering our table,
test them quickly with bites and miniscule nibbles,
savor them with lips and teeth and tongue
as we do–when we can–
the quick, incandescent moments that darken as they pass.
My husband’s eyes, luminously blue, flicker and cool
in a fast wedge of shadow that, darkening his face,
elongates it, reduces it to bone and bristle, to flashes
of glare parenthesizing his mouth.
I dismantle him in his own dissective
games that he cherishes, craves,
playing with all and sundry.
I attend the sloughs of our gray skin
cells littering fresh sheets,
transmogrifying in white washes of light
into a pooled, filthy radiance
I can’t swallow or taste. In early-morning light,
my husband’s eyes are nothing like the sky.
Blue, not azure,
not periwinkle, not cerulean,
they gaze red-lidded
with the ruined-dun aspect
I associate with the sad or craven
though we’re neither decrepit nor Scottish,
my soul mate and I,
simply aging predictably in the loose flesh bags
we once called our bodies
Eating oranges for breakast, the yellowish dripping juice
staining our fingers, we fumble, suddenly, for napkins,
blot our chins, lick our lips, glance at the two shining
glasses topped off with fresh milk, wax poetic
then, laughing prophetically, grasp the small
slick scraps of orange littering our table,
test them quickly with bites and miniscule nibbles,
savor them with lips and teeth and tongue
as we do–when we can–
the quick, incandescent moments that darken as they pass.