Nowhere Near Hudson’s Bay

Toggle me up

on one last vanity flight

half drunk on a screw-top frizzante.

It takes a hell of a lot more to get me here

than it did when I had beauty, boys

when bedding me was the easy way to know me.

Don’t tuck me in

so tight. I’m not your grandma.

This rough blanket

its green red yellow indigo stripes

I traded for a perfectly warm beaver pelt.

Fly me once more

over my disloyal youth

and its hangdog slavering over men

whom age has de-sexed right along with me.

They broadcast impotent outrage

from aluminum tablets.

I collect speculums with Bakelite handles

arranging them by size

though it no longer matters.