crisis
ovenbird
Mid
life
finds
us
with
our
noses
to
the
ground
on
the
trail
of
something
we
cannot
name
.
It
’s
a
scent
like
our
first
boyfriend
’s aftershave
mixed
with
the
complexity
of
forest
air
in
the
morning
.
It
’s
sun
baked
asphalt, truffle
oil
,
and
citronella
.
It
’s
what
time
smells
like
when
it
’s
set
on
fire
.
We
can
’t
explain
how
it
drives
us
wild
.
Like
pheromones
in
reverse
,
it
calls
us
back
to
ourselves
.
We
smell
it
on
each
other
.
We
want
to
roll
in
it
.
Some
of
us
run
away
with
cowboys
half
our
age
.
Some
of
us
break
down
in
the
lab
when
the
kind
nurse presses
a
cotton
ball
to
our
seeping
vein
.
Some
of
us
party
at
midnight
on
a
boat
bedecked
with
lightning
.
Some
of
us
read
Neruda
out
loud
in
bed
and
cry
.
We
’re
not
okay
but
we
’re
not
unwell
.
Air
leaks
out
between
our
ribs
and
estrogen
patches
never
hold
.
We
’ve
been
told
not
to
get
old
, lest
we
lose
our
power
.
How
surprising,
then
,
to
find
ourselves
more
powerful
than
we
’ve
ever
been
.
We
weren’t
supposed
to
know
our
strength
.
We
weren’t
supposed
to
escape
.
260824
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go
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