At the Edge of 40

​There can either be saudade or glory
In this hilly, ancient city crammed
With tiles and custard tarts

As my new age slyly winds its way
Around the corners of my eyes. 

My old self is a mirage. 
I am fuller of figure now, 
With little lights of grey matter
Fizzling out like birthday wishes
After all the candles have melted down. 

During this decade, I got hitched and had a baby in the wrong order,
which turned out to be the only way my fate could unfold. 

My thirty-something identity has peaked,
along with my hips and fertility.
These days, my body is mostly beyond me,
but my heart, that treacherous, wondrous muscle of mine, 
it's still a miracle, 
and it keeps the time just fine. 

Pounding up six flights of stairs
To a stranger's flat in Lisbon, 
It reminds me to pause and breathe 
In the memory of everything 
unfurling

During this unseasonably warm November,
when she is teetering on the precipice of girlhood 
while climbing on a foreign playground

And I am inhaling one-euro wine 
while holding hands with my hero, 
who is disguised as my husband,
plotting which bookshop we should hit next. 

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