The Ladies of Dotage Drive

by Janay Cosner

Our skin looks like baked potatoes.
Mascara springs from our watery eyes.
Our lips pucker in red creased smudges.
Three silver earrings — a half moon,
a star, a grinning sun — dangle
from holes in our left ears,
clank like wind chimes when we walk.
Our hair is braided tight.
We wear embroidered blouses,
show off rolls of our midsections
and back fat bursts from our bra straps.
Flowing skirts hide our elephant legs.
We pick out orthopedic shoes
with the same enthusiasm
we used to pick out lingerie.
We listen closely to talk of yoga, estrogen,
collagen, and whatever else will defy aging,
hug often looking like crooked sticks in a tepee,
speak in tongues of wisdom.
As we age, we are more so.
We are parched for love,
famished for touch.
Men disguised as vultures fly
out of tall grass when we pass.
Penises like a picket fence surround us.
A tiny shudder goes through us
as though our souls have the chills.
Sad women, we cross the rainy Rocky Mountains
which look like green wrinkled sheets,
turn our watches back two hours,
throw ourselves in a scary future.
We need to be washed by rest.