MENOPAUSE POEMS: Rose Hips

Rose hips

In yoga class, surrounded by three walls of mirrors

I cannot avoid seeing my hips

49-year-old bulging handles

their wideness sinks at the wrong spot.

The truth about my hips: I find them

sturdy looking, square front on

but sideways they spread like sponges, abundant

woman fat, spread thickly like butter on sliced bread

or a baguette bulging in the oven.

Bone on bone cracks,

when I raise my legs, lying flat.

Soak those achy, creaky, un-oiled hinges

in salt foam waves,

And let my rose hips rise

like Aphrodite out of the sea.

@JenniferBoire

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.