hands worn to nubs from wringing them,
full of good advice no one wants,
please shoot me in the head, or
give me a gravy bath and leave me
in Wolf Country
so that I may once again experience emotions beyond cheap fretting
and vague upset.
Faced with a circling pack,
my concern over a sweater pilling
or
the neighbor's cat shitting in the azaleas
will seem quaint and stupid.
I will rise up,
screaming come you motherfuckers, come
and I will be seen and considered
for the first time in years.
______
for Sunday Muse #96.
Shay--I think we are close to the same age, but probably, I'm a bit older. (I turned 60 last summer.) I worry about becoming a crabby old woman, so this was the perfect poem for today.
ReplyDeleteI laughed over the gravy bath and then being put into wolf country.
Powerful words. Becoming crabby is just not on - from a 65 year old.
ReplyDeleteHave to love the spirit in this, the rebellion, and the perspective it brings to the draining process of aging, where not just sweaters shrink and pill, where proportion changes and focus mists over--but not here. I love the bite in this, and the refusal to surrender. The last line blows that old woman's nagging feeling of invisibility out of the water. Fighting the good fight here, my BFF. Well done.
ReplyDeleteOh how I love this Shay!!! Complacency and cheap fretting oh how they can seem so ugly to the onlooker. Many an old person has become that crabby old man. Sometimes I feel like a cranky old hoot! LOL When I do, I try to hit myself upside the head (metaphorically speaking) and knock some sense into myself. There are always bigger problems out there than a closer parking spot, or aching hips. This could be an anthem for all us over 55 and beyond!!
ReplyDeleteHa, I had never contemplated a gravy bath and being put into wolf country. But I think I would rather love it. Yes, I would hate to succumb to the vagaries of age, fretting over tiny nothings. I dont think I will, as I hobble stubbornly forth, carrying a head dizzy as a merry-go-round, refusing to miss the things I want to get to. Smiles. My trademark is a fist to heaven and "I'm still here, you bastards!" like the guy in Papillon. LOL.
ReplyDeleteGiggle, giggle. Gravy Bath? I can think of worse. I will survive. (did you know your labels make a poem?)
ReplyDeleteHelen you are so right...the labels make a wonderful poem of their own!! How cool!!!
ReplyDeleteI'm a soul sister (old enough to be your mother) and be damned if I will be wearing spots on my sweater and be obsessed with bodily functions. Fight the good fight, sister!!
ReplyDeleteOh I love the fire in this. I think we went in a similar direction, but mine was simply basic snark while yours had teeth. :)
ReplyDeleteJust great, Shay. Trying hard not to succumb at 76....
ReplyDelete"give me a gravy bath and leave me / in Wolf Country " Oh, that is so, so good. It's all so good, but that just slays me.
ReplyDelete"I will rise up, / screaming come you motherfuckers," - perfect. The wolf awakens you, awakens in you.
Love, love, love this!! Probably because I found myself absolutely turning into "Concerned Aunt" last night while talking to the nephew. *headdesk*
ReplyDelete"emotions beyond cheap fretting
ReplyDeleteand vague upset."
I love that line!
The gravy bath was quite an image. Great work, Shay!
". . . so that I may once again experience emotions beyond cheap fretting
ReplyDeleteand vague upset . . . "
Yes, indeed, break up my winding down however you can--tho I'm not sure about the gravy. That Cranberries song could do it, the wolf pack, too.
To "be seen and considered" rather than invisible used to matter to me. But your poem reminds me that when I stop feeling and acting, I'll be ready for the grave.
To be given a "gravy bath" and left for the wolves, and still she rises up and won't be eaten. Too much spit and fire left in her to give way. And still some bite left in those teeth.
ReplyDeleteI really like the idea of fighting back against becoming invisible. I'm starting to drift into that demographic, and I find it quite annoying. I also have to smile at your version of the old man who yells at the neighbor kids to get off the lawn.
ReplyDelete