I had my fifteen minutes when
my skin was smooth and creamy
and once or twice as I walked in
heads turned around to see me.

The dimples flashing on my cheek
are thigh-bound now.  My tresses
are grey and thin, my waist is thick,
my features unimpressive.

Invisible though I may be
to those who prize the surface,
my worth resides inside of me
beyond the realm where earth is.


cc-by-nc-nd Mary Boren, 2012

Public Domain Photo

Face It


Old wisdom says our faces are a gift
until we’re thirty, then we each become
the author of our own. To shift and lift
by artificial means appeals to some,
but as for me, I’ll go au naturel.
The story that’s unfolding on my mug
is published line by line in runes that spell
long-overdue contentment, with a shrug
of bittersweet remorse for punctuation.
Each burst of joy and melancholy sigh
converge in symmetry on my creation
for all to see. It’s written on the fly.


cc-by-nc-ndMary Boren,  2003