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Elegy for Estrogen

Without which the tits, anxious
              rabbits, sit up on their haunches
no longer in the sun nibbling grasses,
              but cower, fine fat alertnesses
pressed flat, who sense
              the raptor’s presence.
And the chin, ample in
              its sympathy, sinks down
laying the folded
              pleats of its old
coat upon the lawn to lap the dew.
              Must the cunt, too,
lament this loss?
              Atrophies dwindle once-
trophied glades, whose rivulets
              rinsed the helmets
of kings? What balm, after lush
              spring and summer’s flush
fall dumb,
              to say wisdom will come
pressing its cool cabbage leaf across my brow?

              Let all perfumes perish now.

This insistence
              clocks can be stopped with resistance
insults. The one relief
              at certain age
is being sage
              enough at last to admit when I feel bereft.
I’ve little time left
              for lies
meant to anesthetize
              grief.