Low palms capture light in their long
boney fingers and maiden hair fern nestles
in shade, waiting its turn to feed
and I wonder why, why am I so tired and

have to suck in my stomach
to button the pair of jeans that used to
hang at my hips, and I think about
mother’s middle-aged friends–

like the one I’m turning into–
smiling complaints about spreading
middles and the power of gravity, and
how those smiles hid the desperation

of foot soldiers losing the battle to stay
slim and youthful—because the enemy
is winning, this enemy called age.
And I wish for acceptance of the

fine lines and sagging jowls—
those lines that show you’ve lived
and laughed. I remember Grandma’s
shy embarrassment of the age spots

on the backs of her hands, and regret
I didn’t take her beloved hand in
both of mine, and wait for what she never
said about turning seventy-five.

© First published by Autumn House Review.

Sarah Ferris is published in Gyroscope Review, Poetic Diversity, Better than Starbucks, RATTLE, and Ol’ Chanty, among others. Her chapbook, Snakes That Dance Like Daffodils, was published in April, 2019. Sarah has an MA in Spiritual Psychology from the University of Santa Monica, and a BA in Cinema Studies from NYU. She lives in Los Angeles with her family.