Liver-spotted hands make a lie
of my age. I stay tucked
under the eaves, nun-chaste,
content with a porch rocker
and endless needlepoint.

You cannot fathom
how my awkward lips once moved
against a strange mouth,
how my hips stirred
in a singular dance, pinned
beneath the body of another.

You cannot see it now
when I wear the years like a shroud,
when I at last grasp the difference between

alone/lonely
want/need

but long ago I was like you,
lingering in the street at sunset

waiting on some passerby in search
of a discard to pause and say
“We have to stop meeting this way”

before snatching me up
and carrying me home,
posing my hapless limbs
into a figure he could use.

M. Stone is a bookworm, birdwatcher, and stargazer who writes poetry while living in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in San Pedro River Review, SOFTBLOW, Calamus Journal, and numerous other print and online journals. She can be reached here.