No Hope Except Re-Winding the Movie And Praying for a Different Ending
Mary Winters
A kingdo with stiff fines for leaving:
Shangri-La.
The beautiful young woman
turns old
leaning on the fence at the border.
Weeping farewell to the visiting scientist
who has nothing to fear
not being five hundred years old.
Who won't wrinkle up at the gate,
lurch forward withered and bent.
Hair scraggly and white against a cherry tree
in full bloom.
It was true love but you know what
the pop psych manuals say:
beware of an age difference of more than ten years.
It's probably a neurotic urge
to marry your parent.
When you could just have sex with them in a dream
and be done with it.
(Stiff fines the kind of thing the captures
a kid's imagination.
The kind of kid who loves counting things up.
It's not so sad if you know
exactly how many hours Dad's going to be away.
A scientist visiting Shangri-La.)
The movie ends,
the woman a cloud of swirling dust.
Her long, incredibly remantic
white silk kimono
wrapped around a fence post by the wind.
The sash waving good-bye.
