Woman in fog (The cusp of menopause)

If only she could, she would give her

heart to her husband, a womb to her daughter

arms to her son. But her body lies on the floor

awaiting rejuvenation, still breathing, broken

What to do on the days when tears drop

into her soup?  It’s OK to do nothing, she thinks

except simple tasks like laundry.

She picks up a book of poems instead

reads, “Trees lose parts of themselves inside a circle of fog”*

She’s in a thick fog, has shed her leaves

absorbed moisture till she has water

on the brain,  disoriented by the shift  that wakes her

at night, puts other parts to sleep,

brought to her knees in a wave of heat and tears,

unable to exchange the chef’s hat

for the sombrero.

Her feet feel heavy, her mind dull.

She tells herself,  it is only temporary,

lie fallow, compost.

Oh the music she needs to comfort her

and the long night she’ll travel through

until the bright dawn reclaims her.

Human, faulty, imperfect,

like the low thrum she hears in Cohen’s voice.

Claiming darkness as its source,

it rings true, full of light.

*by Francis Ponge.