By Rachel Tanner

After Spinster (2019)

I’m not old, okay? I still have decades
to get life done. To do all the things
that Past Me promised herself she would do.

I once wondered what a different life
would look like if it were stuck to my palms,
but I washed my hands and
went about my day.

I had shit to do.
I always have shit to do.

I met a man on a hiking trail
the other day and we kissed.
It was nice. But that’s all it was—
a moment. Futures don’t always have
to sing in harmony with each other,
especially not when yours is
used to singing lead.

It’s all about timing, I think.
It’s all about finding ways to cope.

The universe begs me to drop down
inside it sometimes, to walk around
and find a hand that fits mine. But my hand
doesn’t need to be held. My hand
can make dinner and make history,
all at the same time. All without peeling
my fingers backwards to fit into
something I don’t even know if I want.

In my head, I plaster my dreams
over the memories of every bad date
I’ve been on. I paint murals in my
mind over the dead ends—everything
that didn’t measure up
to the ideas I’ve always had about
who I should be, what I deserve, and
where all of this is even going.

Mentally, now I can barely even see
the outlines of the things
that couldn’t serve me well. They were
ugly anyway, and I deserve so much beauty.

Don’t we all deserve
so much beauty?

Sometimes I daydream about
my love—myself. All the things
we’ll do together. All the
mountains we’ll move.

It’s enough.
I’m enough.

I get lost in them, these plans. They are
as clear as day behind my eyes, ready
and waiting to be brought into the world
like so much birthing. You don’t have
to be a mother in order to create. You don’t
have to fall in love to fall into joy.

I snap out of my happy haze
and get my ass back to work.

(I get my ass back to me.)