Menopause Poem by Maria Pilar Conn

I keep weeding the garden; no blood flows from me.

My husband's stomach looks like Buda's.I have his smile.

From the café the aroma of coffee reaches me; I taste the dirt covering my hands.

I am a good wife; I cook, clean, and care for.I have nowhere to go in which to wear my red high heels.

He stabs me with his fork, it's just another memory.I laugh with my freedom.

Overweight women crowd my genes.I eat aubergines and paint my nails purple.

If you could go back, they ask, what age would you choose?

Eight.I do not hesitate.