Thursday, I delight in my white hair

as it brushes my young skin and I hold

my own hands happily waiting in line.

Monday, I can barely look at the hag

in the mirror with her old hair and large body,

all heavy with regret and sadness.

Friday, I’m in love so every song

and painting and poem seems meant

for me and my beloved.

Wednesday is an existential bore, a

son-of-a-bitch who likes to hand me a whip

and instruct me on proper self-flagellation.

Sunday is for grief for the lives I’ve seen

and for those paths I didn’t choose

because there was no one to believe in me.

Tuesday, my hips ache and my elbows

are dry and I don’t understand the trend

of caterpillar eyelashes or dull nails.

Saturday, I am free without a bra in morning

and stretch my mind with books and relish

those who’ve touched me and touch me still.