Jeannine Hall Gailey
FIFTY
There’s a fifty percent chance you will survive
this procedure. Fifty percent of voters disapprove
of the President. Fifty percent of people think cilantro
tastes like soap. If I reach fifty, I will be happy.
Emily Dickinson made it to 55, in the late 1880s,
an age cloaked in plagues: typhoid, tuberculosis,
yellow fever. Talking to my friend about the coronavirus,
I said: I will be thankful if I make it to fifty-five.
Fifty sits out there for women, fateful, bloodless,
a long sleep, a long white nightgown. Most women
disappear around that age, isn’t it said? That we become
invisible? My body’s quirks have kept me ticking
but can’t be relied on, like a fancy Italian car,
rated for speed but not safety, not longevity.
I would be happy for a few years cloaked
and slippery, a ghost figure, hard to pin down.
I’ve already lost my fingerprints and no system
recognizes my facial features. It seems
I have been practicing disappearing for years.
Fifty is the year a woman changes from waif to wolf,
from virgin to witch. Fifty is the year we can wear
big jewelry and big perfume, brighter colors,
flatter shoes. All the better, my dear.
If my body continues with its tricks,
I may not make it, but I am trying, fifty. I am ready.