ELAINE LOW

Impatience, in verse form

At times I wish he were more impressionable,

more impressed
not yet past the years of flash and reckless steam,
still untouched by experience and
the wisdom of lovers before me

I can imagine their curves, stretches of torsos and
furlongs of hair cascading like silk,
relate to the wonder of discovery
in beholding flesh, flushed with new sex

I can picture a timeline of stories, anecdotes
of places and people and episodes conquered,
invincibility now given way to a quiet confidence
grounded beyond the arrogance of stags

My own mistakes are hardly made, battle scars
not yet etched in deep; how unfortunate 
that rushing headfirst into fire yields little,
despite a willingness to be scarred for the sake of growth

It is a game of catch-up I will not win
being light years behind,
the inexperience of youth still smooth on the face
grace and wisdom still budded, emerging

and I am tugging at roots
waiting to bloom.

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