Grief Ritual For My Once Young Body
You remember being lithe. Light. Slim, slight.
Small. You wanted this, to erase your past
and be erased to nothing, emptiness like a cloud
in your belly, rising on birdwings, birdbones, birdlegs.
How the men would stare. And the women, devouring
you with the salad on their plates. You were a beauty.
You had control. That was a long time ago. Before your
child, before midlife and its rubbernecking, its crepe
and creep. You were a girl and then you weren’t and
the world wants you to reject this fact, the world wants
you to fight it. But you are done fighting. You must mourn
all you have lost, especially this girlish flesh. Light some sage.
Toss the hot pants. Toss the heels. Donate to the girls
who were once you, searching the racks for tonight’s dress.
Meghan Sterling’s poetry is in Los Angeles Review, Colorado Review, Rhino Poetry, Hunger Mountain and many other journals. Sterling was co-editor of A Dangerous New World: Maine Voices on the Climate Crisis. Her collection You Are Here to Break Apart is forthcoming in 2025.
