Thursday, April 23, 2015
Femme d'une age
they say with a Gallic quirk of the eyebrow,
as if this sweetly whispered label
makes any damned difference
to those of us sandwiched between
adult children and death.
Women of a certain age,
you know, them,
the ones who are no longer first in line
and whose talents and achievements are recited
as if they were an old mantra
from now-defunct religion.
Donna di una certa età,
say those dark-eyed men with
twitchy fingers at the rumps of
younger women who do not yet
know better than to walk too close—
Sono ossessionati dai loro peni.
They, who wrap us in these words
before relegating us to the shelf,
do not understand the truth of this age.
There’s a reason we witches are not
depicted as kittenish young girls,
but as sleek, powerful cougars.
We are only à mi-chemin,
a metà strada,
halfway through with you.
Copyright 2015 by Femme Malheureuse
Graphic: Fruit, c. 1897, Alfons Maria Mucha