the body, as it ages, its mystery and majesty,
the scars, the lines, the silver threads 
unwinding.  I no longer care about air-brushed 
celebrities in glossy magazines.  I want to celebrate
the real:  weak ankles courtesy of afternoons
chasing a puck on a frozen pond.  Thighs, more Venus
of Willendorf than Kate Moss or Twiggy.  Upper arms
that wobble like jello no matter how many reps 
I do at the gym.  Belly that stretched big as a watermelon,
then spit out (how did that happen?) sweet pink babies.
Breasts that fed them, rivers of thin blue milk.
Yes, I've made the turn onto the unpaved road,
where fat yellow leaves hang overhead.  Things
don't get better from here.  But over there,
in the clearing, beyond the fields of goldenrod, 
New England asters, pearly everlasting, 
they're waiting:  the friends who've gone before,
my parents, grandparents, lost baby.  They've
set up a picnic:  checked tablecloth, sourdough
bread, French cheeses, green grapes, red wine.
They're chatting amiably with each other. 
The air is sweet with fermentation and birdsong.
The sun slants in from the west and, like Midas,
turns everything to gold.

and how can you train
the body to be the body?
	Carrie Addington, “Waist Training”

How can I train this aging
body, with its baggage, the freight
load of dinners in France, plates
gleaming with sauce and cream, sauté
pans sizzling, a glass of rosé
at the start of the meal that’s raised
to the setting sun.  Breakfast: an array
of croissants in a basket, display
of confitures, especially les fraises
des bois, wild strawberries.  I’m sedentary:
at my keyboard writing essays
or reading a roman à clef
cushioned in a chair.  The days
when I ran before dawn, gone.  Praise
be to my left knee; the right one says
“mercy” going down stairs.  The pain in places
I never knew existed.  Ahead, there’s a station
and I’m slowly chugging towards it.  No weight
training at the gym or miles on the exercycle can stay
this decline.  In the passenger car, a conductor sways,
pushing his clicker, punching tickets: sprays
of confetti, little o’s litter the aisles, ricochet.