Poem: Götterdämmerung

Götter­däm­merung
–Rita Dove
From On the Bus with Rosa Parks

A straw reed climbs the car antenna.

Beyond the tint­ed glass, gold­en waves
of grain. Gol­ly! I can’t help
exclaim­ing, and he smirks—
my born-again nat­u­ral­ist son
with his souped-up laptop,
dear prodi­gy who insists
on dri­ving the two hours
to the jet he insists I take.
(No tur­bo­props for this

old lady.) On good days
I feel a lit­tle meaty; on bad,
a few degrees from rancid.
(Damn knee: I used it this morning
to retrieve a spilled colander;
now every cel­l’s blow­ing whistles.)

At least it’s still a body.
He’d nev­er believe it, son of mine,
but I remem­ber what it’s like
to walk the world
with no help from strangers,
not even a per­son­al trainer
to make you feel the burn.

(Most of the time, it’s flutter-heart
and Her Roy­al Celes­tial Mustache.
Most of the time I’m broth
instead of hon­ey in the bag.)

So I wear cos­met­ics maliciously
now. And I like my bracelets,
even though they sound ridiculous,
clink­ing as I skulk through the mall,
store to store like some ancient
iron-clawed griffin—but I’ve never

stopped want­i­ng to cross
the equa­tor, or touch an elk’s
horns, or sing Tosca or screw
James Dean in a field of wheat.
To hell with wis­dom. They’re all wrong.
I’ll nev­er be through with my life.