The Pause   

The Pause   

Might think 
lust-think 
should shrink
even though its lure
has became
a national pastime; for sure,
her mothers’ mothers said
time out.  But not modern woman—
when she lies back, legs wide
she grooves that no more
children will result.  No need
for devices to keep 
juices from colliding.  The old girl
twin vine is dry, spit out all the seeds,
hung its fruit by the root, nothing seeps,
except that bit of hormone still fancying
itself eighteen, still ripening her apple,
she will offer to that young man who thinks
the silver in her hair is a gold-mine—
he bares his shovel, prepared to dig.