Why does a woman

of a certain age raise 
eyebrows when she says things 
like That's dope, or This carousel 
of life would be so much more fun 
to ride if they gave you the dark-
maned stallion and not the sparkly 
little pony. I mean I have nothing 
against sparkly. But aren't you too 
just a little bit tired of how every 
store that hasn't renewed its lease 
at the mall has been turned into 
a selfie wall? Giant wings, a painted
swing under a fake bower, rainbow 
umbrellas with glow-in-the-dark
raindrops. My hero is Yayoi
Kusama, who has always been 
a woman of a certain age
even from the time she was ten,
when she obliterated the image 
of her mother in a kimono 
with her signature army of
hallucinatory dots. Or
the Bakunawa, typically
misunderstood in all the tales
that describe how it swallowed
the seven moons and would not
give them back. So much
brilliance, one for every
day of the week— who 
wouldn't be enamored?  
How is anyone to endure 
eternity without a store
of heat and light, a steed
with muscled flanks?