POEM
The Ships Move On
Freckles on my thighs, my legs—
I never had them
before (someone called my skin once the color of apricots)
the grey in my hair greyer,
grey to white even,
my face changing, becoming
a bit like my mother’s face
& I rarely
could see her as handsome
(though Eugene Morley saw it)
Faces of my women friends who were
beautiful when I met them,
so beautiful,
such promises of bliss I could
hardly believe they were real
or my face when M. said
“How do you feel carrying around
a face like that?”
Time has hollowed,
lined, dulled
the brilliance of eyes, the perfect matching
of curves, of mouth to forehead,
cheek to eyebrow, the proportions
shaken in all our faces
Those shapes which seemed to
exist only to please,
to pleasure
the soul,
to make the observer
stare, wrenched now a little,
twisted, obscured by
sags & puckers,
hidden
by pressure of years: a parchment
where everything leaves a trace
I had thought those contours
on my friend’s face hard & clear enough for
a profile on a ship’s prow
Life has written
on us
The ships move on
relentlessly
They carry us with them, caged
in whatever time has written
on us indelibly,
that amazing handwriting
(now only half-familiar)
on the skin of our years
"The Ships Move On" from Cloudless at First by Hilda Morley (Kingston, Rhode Island: Moyer Bell, 1988) Copyright © 1988 by Hilda Morley. Reprinted by permission of the publisher.
Source: Cloudless at First (Moyer Bell, 1988)
