At The Center Of Middle Age

I am the sea's mannequin
lounging half nude
behind the glass doors
of the beach house.

My bracelet snags
a tiny flower painted
on this silk peignoir;
but there are many others.

White blossoms on jade,
I wear a universe spun
by Givency
but wish I could own
the skies that clothe evening,
my heart pinned somewhere

between the sole
of Virgo's foot
and the orb of Lyra's harp.
Enough promise there
in fertility and song

to pull the woman
out of her hollow bones
and scour the shore
for red seaweed, marrow's garland
of cells that make her healthy
and turn the marble Lorelei
human --- the white star in her palm
flushed with warmth.