40-something going on 50 by Jumoke Verissimo | Poems Rethabile Likes
40-something going on 50
by Jumoke Verissimo
Tell me, how this body leans into abbreviations,
and searches and ellipsis,
of the exaggerated years with devoted worries, all those anxieties
spent shapes
[till] I am grotesque as ruins
and concealed tattered underpants, drunk,
as spinning carousels
Can I become cloud again,
moisture, floating, can I transform
trying to become the moon in
disappeared skies, in the wounded nights
in the punctured canopy of decimated desires
the contractual, hurried speed of gone days,
I try, oh, I try so—
to fill up the spaces that eject me,
[stay] orchid and broken [wheels],
emptied rooms, abandoned parks
absentminded mothers in wrecked aprons
sons, daughters and fathers in reclaimed
lands, but yet needy, very very needy
[yet] I see only the judgement of memory.
Is this the body that I deserve [after four decades]
wonderful, this wonder on its own terms
third-generation of forgotten languages, lone touches
on dehydrated skin, do I let them forget me
become the most family portrait, a series
of untold stories leave a century lodged
in my chest, occurring to others as an afterthought
in street corners, unopened emails, forgotten text messages
Sunday nights, sometimes come with thankfulness,
on these days, the night is also a museum
of small wonders, such, such, such wonders
when limb, trunk, chest see tomorrow and think, progress.
and searches and ellipsis,
of the exaggerated years with devoted worries, all those anxieties
spent shapes
[till] I am grotesque as ruins
and concealed tattered underpants, drunk,
as spinning carousels
Can I become cloud again,
moisture, floating, can I transform
trying to become the moon in
disappeared skies, in the wounded nights
in the punctured canopy of decimated desires
the contractual, hurried speed of gone days,
I try, oh, I try so—
to fill up the spaces that eject me,
[stay] orchid and broken [wheels],
emptied rooms, abandoned parks
absentminded mothers in wrecked aprons
sons, daughters and fathers in reclaimed
lands, but yet needy, very very needy
[yet] I see only the judgement of memory.
Is this the body that I deserve [after four decades]
wonderful, this wonder on its own terms
third-generation of forgotten languages, lone touches
on dehydrated skin, do I let them forget me
become the most family portrait, a series
of untold stories leave a century lodged
in my chest, occurring to others as an afterthought
in street corners, unopened emails, forgotten text messages
Sunday nights, sometimes come with thankfulness,
on these days, the night is also a museum
of small wonders, such, such, such wonders
when limb, trunk, chest see tomorrow and think, progress.
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