Risa Denenberg

A scrap of sadness, a slice of shame
A single serving of malaise
Among my comrades, the aging,
I mourn the loss of words and names
For many funerals to come, I rehearse
For all I will forget, I’m none the worse
Beneath the threshold of desire
I hold my tongue, try not to curse
Mind and body adrift in wreckage
Death hangs loose around my neck
I live the limits of the aging
All is lost, I gravely reckon
Curious bells toll at odd hours
Growing old grows old, and devours