Thirty-one years she lived by the bay
and never once did she swim,
bare toes never felt the cool wet sand
not once did the sun kiss her cheeks.
Now she has old-woman arms
bruised and red-spotted
never tanned, never burnt.
She could say she was healthy
but oh, what a brindled and dim
mother—wife—daughter—niece
not much to look at they’d say
as they always have
and now she can almost believe it.
But she’s a grand slam of heartbreak,
a hard wind laced with sleet,
plumage of streetlights and insomnia,
and the junk man. And it all just happened.
Over thirty-one years of every day.
