In Her Own Skin
Aug 15 2016


She still has the figure
that caught a certain man’s eye
and intimidated others.

The lithe loose walk
that reminds me of the coltish girl
who moved through the world
with such blithe aplomb,
unconscious of her power.

But all the sun
in which her body gloried
in those halcyon summers of peace and love
has left its mark.
Because time is relentless,
and beauty, it seems
a zero-sum game.
Even though long golden hair
still brushes her shoulders,
deep blue eyes
just as fiercely engage.

We age gracefully
into ourselves. 
Where once we’d have squirmed, and felt exposed
we learn to be comfortable 
in our own skin. 
It doesn’t matter 
that hers is parchment-thin,
splotched, rough, wizened.

I don’t know if she ever laments
her past indiscretions.
If she’d rather have been wan and transparent
but out of the light;
never dancing in sun
or teasing the boys
or falling in love.
Had rarely known
the male gaze,
felt herself
the object of lust.

The ideal, once
was pale-skinned, a little plump.
But she was a dark thin beauty
who was of her time.
And now, she can’t help but embody
the invisibility of age
man’s desire. 

In the latest New Yorker, this picture of the author accompanied a review of Joy Williams’ book Ninety-Nine Stories of God. I know nothing about her, and so obviously have taken great liberties in this completely invented narrative. But as soon as I saw it, this poem came to mind.

When I see such pictures, I feel twinges of regret at my sun-worshipping ways. I think how beauty is such a two-edged knife:  what was once irresistible turning slightly repellent. How images of age convey wisdom and comfort, but also evoke the harsh aesthetic judgment of conventional beauty. You can see the past in the present; but it takes a certain exercise of imagination and empathy.