Thirty has curves the tongue
can’t navigate.
It echoes over and over in silent,
snow-covered gorges.
Thirty can hang if you let it take a nap first.
It won’t ever have money, but
it’s assumed it can pick up the check.
Thirty dances along every edge, and
doesn’t listen when it’s told
not to look down.
It smells like various cheap jar candles;
scents trailed with subtle “**** its”
and the smoke leaves notes
of pungent regret.
Thirty has an aftertaste of ****** innuendo and likes to whisper filth in a stranger’s ear
when no one can hear.
It doesn’t intend to put its happiness
in any hands but its own
(but does it anyway).
Thirty has guts but is too modest
to show off that armor.
It argues more freely and refuses
to lay at anyone’s feet.
Thirty knows the smell of snow
and relishes the scent
of fire’s smoke in its hair.
It can taste the deep kisses from yesterday
and never stops wondering
if they’ll come again.
Thirty finds a purpose in every day
but realizes that tomorrow
is not a promise made to anyone.
It feels unsettled and shortfallen,
but its cup runneth over.
It uses what it’s mama gave it
to stay warm at night.
Thirty is lonely with a full charge.
It finds poetry in palm lines and
pulls prose from the lies its told.
Thirty is the beginning you
never knew you needed.
So let’s begin.
© Bitsy Sanders, November 2018