Here I stand, damp and peeling
out of my first half-century carapace,
skin sloughing like a fat, burnt snake,
whirling and gurgling down the drain;
stripped and flaking evidence
of the life I’ve led so far.
Will the other side of April
be a slow slide down into darkness--
fifty dulled roots in a dead lilac land? No.
I defy sad Tom and his heap of broken images.
Instead, I shall wear stockings of a fine scarlet red