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.