I. I know my life will end
Like my voices told me,
At twenty when I first learned
Someday, I’d die.
II. They came upon me
While bathing, like Undine
Rising from the waters
In search of her soul.
III. They stayed to taunt me,
Leading me forward and beside,
Never showing me a clear path,
But, a gravel road instead.
IV. I couldn’t decipher their intent
In my youth, yet my compass led me
Beyond the sandstone blocks
Of Southern California.
V. I drove north westerly,
Made the city my own.
Down Santa Monica Boulevard
In a hazy orange VW dreamscape.
VI. I stayed, maybe fifteen years.
And then, waited five more
For the cancer to leave me
Before I rode those voices hard.
VII. I find myself now
Aged distinctively by the sun,
My face a craggy coastline,
No cream can soften the blow.
VIII. Yet, I fear not this time.
I have not faded.
And hot pink streaks my hair,
No ma’am am I.
IX. My voices speak lively words
Inside my head
Not that I could distinguish them
Until those twenty years went by,
X. When I finally put pen to paper
Fingertips to keyboard
And spoke their words aloud
For the first time.
XI. It was then I heard
The interior life of an aging,
Overweight ingénue, ripen with age.
Growing ever more bold and imperfect.
XII. And, I introduced myself
To Angry Old Woman,
Whose guttural English and sailor mouth
Belie a golden heart.
XIII. I’ve always wondered
Where the nasty comes from…
But, as long as I let her speak,
Her words on paper, no one is hurt.
XIV. There is separation in ink
That the spoken word cannot penetrate.
It is as if evidence of worth
Is only in the recording of them.
