Denial

Margaret V.Doran

I said goodbye to my waist
many years ago
with the fourth child, not the first, I think.
I am no longer a cheerleader graced
with face and figure to show;
I aged washing dishes in the sink.

My once-cherished year book I have not seen
in my last five homes
and my poor feet absolutely refuse
pointed toed shoes; you can almost hear them keen.
My hair rejects fancy combs;
my skin looks grey against current hues.

My fantasies no longer put me in the arms
of Jon Clauds or Fabios;
in the showroom I no longer look at Jags.
I find crew cabs and mini-vans with open door alarms
and child restraints in rows,
step sides and built-in garbage bags.

Mini skirts and hot pants are things of the past
since the kids hung a sign on my back
and stood snickering to read "Wide Load."
My midriff hasn't seen daylight since decade before last.
A bikini suggests panic attack;
cover up is now my simple code.

My lovely hands had long painted nails.
Now they're calloused and hard:
no nails, no paint, my fingers split.
Sometimes now even memory fails.
Muscle tone is marred;
I know I shall never again be fit.

Gone forever is my youth,
but I will not mourn its death:
I rejoice in the life I have today.
I'll share with you a simple truth:
enjoy each taken breath
for the alternatives are no better way!

Copyright © 1997 Margaret V. Doran. All rights reserved.

If you enjoyed this poem, please send her an e-mail here.

Updated July 2, 1999
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