by Carolyn Jean Park
They say that men age like
Wine. But women—they are
Roses, trembling with shy potential,
a sudden burst of sunshine, then
rapid descent with crumbling droop.
A beauty, once upon a time, a
long time ago, they say she was, the now
withered flower that sags with faded
grace.
But for me, I will not be some petal. No,
I shall be cheese.
And what would they say,
years and years from now when my
features become hideous and my smell more
Distinct. They may say:
what such fabulously aged
cheese needs
is a sip of vintage claret.