When my voice is old,
I’d like to sing into a gorge,
into the Marianas Trench.
I want my brow to grow heavy,
bearing peaches, to feel
the weight of decades on
my hips, to own a splintered
fractal of human history.
When my hair is white and
silver, I’ll unleash the stars
of my braid, arthritic
opening to God. My hunched
spine will crack open, wrinkled
skin peeling away, bone
popping and curling until
the husk of
Who I Thought I Was
falls away, blows away, to
reveal the ball of light inside.