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A shadow moustache came on
when I reached sixty;
the skin darkened;
in some light it was blueish.
There were fewer tears; as for
weeping, almost never. I lost
muscle mass, but my brain
lit up with fantasies in
which I was dominant, a top,
not on men but women.
My thrusts were cruel.
It scared me, this creature
I’ll call a man, a guy-guy
son of a bitch. Now I’m
older by decades, intact,
a virgin queen who watches
the young pass by in their beautiful shapes.
~~~~

Miriam Levine is the author of Forget about Sleep, her sixth poetry collection, winner of the 2023 Laura Boss Narrative Poetry Award. Another collection, The Dark Opens won the Autumn House Poetry Prize. Levine lives in Florida and New Hampshire.
Copyright 2025 Miriam Levine
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I needed that smile today. Thank you
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fantastic Miriam (Carla)
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Yours for free speech!
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I laugh with you at the underlying meaning, oh, Virgin Queen. There’s something quite touching about a shadow moustache. Or a poem that keeps its brio intact beyond the menopause avalanche.
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Thanks, Jim. I admire Miriam’s poems for their courage and honesty.
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And we need her courage and honesty more than ever.
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