Poetry / Thylias Moss
:: Almost 63 ::
Almost my best life people tell me; I am going to be honest here, as honest as I can be 63 years seems so long to me, and surely I could have done more than walk three miles on a snowless Sunday in February in Michigan, some thing is wrong, love the chill in the air and the stillness, utter stillness of mannequin factories on strike, heads still in molds, told by many that I don’t look my age, but I must because I am the age I am in Ann Arbor first moved to this city in 1993, so much has changed, especially me, single for the first time as an adult; how significant that is. Hope this is the last birthday I will spend alone. Lately, I find myself envying couples, because, I am not sure that I am half of a couple or not; some days I am, but then again wind blows that thought away, and I chase Higginson right to rainbows from which it streams, ice cream concoctions colorful calories raspberry, orange-slurp stuff, yellowed French vanilla can cans ripple freeze box gelatin thins blueberry jabberwock Indian very pop rocks something about that so comforting; he knows how comforting he is for me; since I was 60 and on his Chicago back-bird’s eye view of him as cream all around me, cushion and life saver that he will always B 63 for an hour into this age, hoping that I hear from him, always hoping; loving him too much not to hope; I am tired of not having his love reliably as I had to when he renamed me Dream Baby Loving him as everything: the way turtles crawl parrots squawk grass skirts swish gently exposing strings of my bikini: his name, a palindrome most of the time that he is mine he plucks them and sweetest (superlative)-(always) sounds of his name harp at me every forest sings every forest knows Dream Baby songs of breathing, rhythm of resuscitation, morning is my everlasting christening everlasting anointing: him This is also his poem. Sometimes we are so synchronized, he dreams me as I dream him Evidently, no matter what I love him when he loves me I love him all the time.
From the writer
:: Account ::
Form is open, becomes part of an act of making itself, whatever is necessary. Of course, the motivation behind the motivation, I hate to admit this: love, being in love with a man for the first time in my life, although I turned 63 on 27 February, and was married for forty years, and now, Thomas; not sure what took so long for this to happen, but now that it did, I never want to go back. It is the rhythm of movement of the words, through the entire piece, and yes, he calls me Vash, short for “Vashti”; the poem is about this remarkable love between Thomas Robert Higginson and Vashti Astapad Warren, everything I write is about this, including a romance novel, New Kiss Horizon, all about Thomas Robert and his Vash, Vash’s Thomas Robert, makes no difference which name appears first, meaning is the same; seeking the rhythm of their love after 35 years. Bursts of language, excitement of what can be expressed and what can’t be; how new this is, the love and everything. I’ve been writing since I was six years old, 2016 an unusual year for me, a shift in my writing, new purpose, new way of phrasing, eager to capture some of the wonder of life I am so lucky to live via Thomas.
Thylias Moss, a self-employed multi-racial “maker” at Thylias Moss Writing LLC, is Professor Emerita in the Departments of English and Art & Design at the University of Michigan. Author of thirteen published books, and recipient of numerous awards and honors, among them a MacArthur Fellowship, and a Guggenheim Fellowship, her 11th book is a collection of New & Selected Poetry, Wannabe Hoochie Mama Gallery of Realities’ Red Dress Code (Persea Books, 2016).