WOMEN AT FORTY
are filled with force they rage
and stamp in their fields
their breasts swell with all
the things they've never tried
their skin
softens to suede
smoothing over old blemishes
their legs are slim they compare
favorably with their daughters
they stand half-way looking
as far ahead as behind
their sex
is
ripe with assurance
their men
scratch their heads and pull
their ears
women at forty
sit on volcanoes they hold
their fingers
in
flames
they pan for gold they are
prospectors they are tycoons
they juggle millions
they are collectors they are new
museums
they are dynamos it's their turn
they have gathered solar
heat and kilowatts
to burn
