Imprecise Lament
I was very young
when I first wanted
to take the mask off.
When I was ten
I loved to look
in the mirror
until I became strange
to my own self.
When I was twenty
I wanted to be
an everblooming fruit tree.
Now that I am middle aged
I am the mask.
I want to know
my body’s gravity,
the beauty of falling leaves
disappearing on the ground.
Hearing the hot jazz
playing at my open window,
I think of the last
sultry days of summer,
of dark sparrows somewhere
littering the fading sky
with their small song.
*
Natalie Marino is a poet and physician. Her work appears in Gigantic Sequins, Mom Egg Review, Plainsongs, Pleiades, Rust + Moth, Salt Hill, South Florida Poetry Journal, West Trestle Review and elsewhere. She is the author of the chapbook Under Memories of Stars (Finishing Line Press, 2023). She lives in California. You can find her online at nataliemarino.com or on Instagram @natalie_marino.