by mid life, she’s in her nineties.
someone has written on her lines.
they must have been among the first, to make it there,
before the ticker disappeared from the pages.
She still writes with her left hand.
For someone like me, who was not allowed
the stages of youth, her ‘she’ is evident.
I study her.
The veritable procession of ideas
and solid substance that is there.
Sure, there’s drama.
I stood outside, craned my neck to get a view,
holding my own questions
with fascination.
in silence, I make ready the crackers.
I miss youth,
For once.
Eila Mahima Jaipaul
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/her-she-to-me/
