Damn right I am hiding,
putting myself in plain view
under this cheerful shrug,
these tolerant wrinkles
… unwilling to clasp hands
for a communal dive off the cliff,
unwilling to cackle in public
or cause the sharp disillusionment of innocents.
This prickle-bush is not barren;
there are berries hanging
not in easy reach,
the tasting will leave scars
or at least deep scratches
from ungentle thorns.
This kind of luscious
is not poison
but will hurt,
and is kept out of the reach of children,
even grown ones.
This creative burn
is not just pubis,
not just throat
or a kick in the belly,
but ear-tips
and trapped breath
and tears stored in thighs
that could have shed them long ago
but held them closed.
This hunger is not just for younger men,
or former selves,
or future or past breasts
or hair or slippery baldness;
not just for different kinds of cream
and salt and indulgence
and raw paring down;
not just for moans
and temple bells
and boys planting laughter on the lawn
and the unspeakable volume of tsunamis.
This fear is shared,
known in every language,
first cousin to the soccer mom
who may deny the kinship;
it is the growling solitary wail
of the liberated predator,
the shaking in the night
that visits us all.
Our feathers and rattles at feast-time
are useless to drive it away,
but sometimes work to usher it close,
find room for warmth near the coals.