by Ace Boggess
If withering bones hollow out
like those of birds, will I take wing?
My joints—ankles, wrists,
knees—needing a squirt of WD40,
sing chattering hallelujahs when I move
as if Handel’s Messiah
transposed for cricket & cicada.
What lies my sinuses tell my eyes,
squinting, indifferent to the ache inside.
When does growing older
transform into growing old?
When does the cough of a cold
etch scars in the throat
that never fade? I should
break my nose on a stranger’s fist
to remind me, even at my age,
some things heal.
*Title is from a medical pamphlet
You’re sitting on a dock with an old friend, catching up on the experiences you haven’t shared. He asks what you fear at this point in your life. What is your answer?