After 25...

After 25...

The night goes quiet after twenty-five,
as though they see rings in your skin
as well as on your finger.

With creping around drowsy eyes,
like the creases in timeworn love-letters,
there is cause to wonder why
no one told you that the way
you used to do the usual things
would cease to be adorable
when you rounded a certain corner.
Now is when you deign to paint
your nails red, but somehow
it lacks dignity.

Once, hisses and hollers
from passing cars at twilight
were hot mosquito-prick stings.
Now, they’re a welcome sort of infestation,
an itch that sings for a scratch,
and yet, there is something untoward
about the ones who dare to look now,
as though their intention is unclean;
a theft within a rape.

Old impressions on newly-naked fingers
arouse the strangest of animals,
and something falls away,
like the slow strip of a banana peel,
full of freckles and other blemishes
leaving something unholy in the gazer’s grasp.

The slippery shame
in coveting the seasoned woman
forces all the choirboys into hiding,
though their intent remains obvious,
despite the righteous robes.
As long as it is unspoken,
it is a myth, a parable,
a story for poorly lit places.