I’m standing at the crossroads between a saint and bitch.
Schooled in forebearance, I’ve stayed within my nitch.
But lately things are changing. I’m losing self-control.
The hounds of Hell have been released and now they’re on patrol.
They’re fluting all the pillars formerly unmarked—
scoring them with unfurled claws every time they’ve barked.
Soon I will be certified as a nagging crone—
the sort of aging harpie who prefers to live alone.
I’m sure its hard to fathom it, as perfect as I’ve been,
kowtowing to authority—especially to men.
But privilege must come to all as we come to age,
so I’m expressing sovereignty, at least here on the page.