WISE
We say the old are wise.
I am 71. I look in the mirror
for a sign of wisdom.
Nothing there—unless wisdom hides
in wrinkles and graying hair,
eyes that see suffering everywhere:
people in distress, their inner spark dimmed
by the death of a loved one
or by their daily struggles with health issues or
money problems or relationships turning stale,
hostile, toxic. A world darkened
by the terrors of war, hunger, trauma.
I study my mouth in the mirror,
not smiling at the moment.
No light in this misery.
I don’t feel wise.
I have nothing to offer the woman in the mirror—
except to gather her sorrows and hold them for a while
until I can’t anymore, the burden too heavy to contain.
Stepping away, I think of my granddaughters.
I know that, wherever they are—
inside or outside, in the light, the dark—
they are laughing, dancing, spinning cartwheels,
singing their K-pop songs
to anyone, everyone, listening or not.
I begin to suspect we’ve got it backwards:
it’s the young who are wise.
*
Lori Levy’s poems have appeared in Rattle, Poetry East, WayWords Literary Journal, Passager Journal, ONE ART, and numerous other literary journals and anthologies. She is the author of two chapbooks: “What Do You Mean When You Say Green? and Other Poems of Color” (Kelsay Books) and “Feet in L.A., But My Womb Lives in Jerusalem, My Breath in Vermont” (Ben Yehuda Press). Levy lives with her husband in Los Angeles near their children and grandchildren.
