spoken in the voice of Natalia Ginzburg

The first thing to go is the neck.
That’s where it starts: gravity pulls,
the grave extends its reach, yanks at the tendons,
strings them out, distends the flesh.
The cheeks give in, drop to the jaw, become jowls.
Jowls, you say, my father’s jowls.

This is the turning point.
No spring left to resist
dust’s desire to make more dust.
After this defeat, the rest follows:
bust and butt racing in a cavalcade
to the finish.

How you had laughed
at middle-aged crises, assumed
your horse-face
would spare you the pretty girls’ ravaged
future. Calmly, you awaited the change,
superior in your plainness.

Manly, your brothers teased. Brutta.
You cried and prayed for delicacy
to visit your coarse features, soften
the nose, round out the chin. You wanted
wide-set eyes like Athena, gray-blue ...

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