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by Kimberly Nunes
Men tell me I look years younger—
even my regular lover, he says,
"You have the body of a thirty-year-old,
your face is forty, maybe thirty-five,
it's just your neck
There was a man on a plane,
we had a bet, I showed him my license,
he was surprised—"Your eyes are clear
and your body…athletic!"
They seem to want a morsel
each one, a touch
before I disintegrate,
to hold the illusion or
bear it away
whole-or apart, the pieces carried.
Such times, I feel like an anthill,
temporary and amazing, on the African
savannah, the one in Botswana
I once watched from a Jeep.
Ten feet tall and trembling in the sun,
the earth it was made of, a million
fine creatures at work.
They inhabit my senses, the ants,
how they see me, hold me up
and together, how they pass