By Thirty

By thirty

the midriff thickens

to remind you

of the babies you never brought to fruition.

Satori is a deferred project.

By thirty

you begin to smell death

on dawn visits to bathrooms.

You know it’s a matter of waiting

until it’s whirled away –

the whispers, creamy with love, aromatic

with the attar of last night’s confidences

and the simple faith of early mornings.

By thirty

you accept that you’ll never shop duty-free

at Reykjavik airport.

You postpone the course in film history

to another lifetime.

You begin to rediscover

an insular passion for melted jaggery.

By thirty

you can almost smile

at the treachery

of friends, lovers, schoolteachers.

Perhaps by forty

you’ll forgive them.

By thirty,

you know you want to walk

away from ruined empires of fermented dream

towards lands vast and unchoreographed,

where every step ahead is adventure,

and every step ahead, anchorage.