Don’t, allow my looks to fool you—
the white hair, the old-lady shape.
Don’t mistake this reedy voice for MINE.
I am thirty-five, and vitally alive
and I have the power of all time
behind me as I speak to you.
My body does not know this, or believe
But I tell you, it is true.

I still hold the power of seduction
Only now I know how to use it.
I don’t waste it on the trivial mating game.
I save it for the only real game in town.

I don’t write from the shyness of lifetime.
Don’t be taken in.
It is not wise to underestimate me.
My words are not soft or comforting.
Growth does not come from comfort.

The pallid skin that holds you
is too paltry a container.
You know it.
All the diversions in the world can’t
keep you from the truth.
As you grow old or sick or disabled
As you look at wrinkled face
or shriveled hand
maybe you’ll begin to notice—
This is not me!
It holds me, it expresses me
but such imperfection is not ME.
Maybe then you’ll be tempted to discover
what IS you
if not your body.

I speak to YOU
The one that fills the room
that communes with earth arid sky . . .
I am outing you, and inviting you to play.

Bring your precious imperfect body
along, as long as it’s willing
Since it’s such a wonderful conveyance
and you’re so enthralled by it.
By all means, bring it . . .

But, by all means, come.

Willits