40

A frozen trough.
Clinging to cold flat depth
brown leaves resist but yield
to dry cold wind.
A corner turned,
flipped up, the seal broken it follows
to congregate in a square corner.
Become same.

Inside.
White light falls on silver flesh
whisper thin like paper ash.
Seeps through follicles long gone
to reveal a neat round skull
full of thought.

Transparent flesh has lost memory
as it hangs crinkled and soft.
Sat sunk into feather down
she is small.
In bra and pants pausing,
flesh weeps from her back.

I creep through black light
staring widely helps nothing,
night vision lost to the screen.
I find my place now, my half,
and return to the warm plump
flesh of love.

Carol Peace
One night, on turning 40 in the Spring of 2010