Don’t imagine I’m nostalgic
For that younger me, half
My age, with hairband and
Dog. I’m older than I look
And possibly wiser. It is true
That friends and lawns and
Romantic rue contour
That picket-fence-secure me
As surely as the leaner leg
And the hand that now I only see
On my daughters, half as old
As half my age me.
Don’t imagine that I regret
Becoming this immovable object
Unamused at the attempt at
Being guarded by a force all too
Resistible. Even their backs
Look ashamed, resisting
Being named. Don’t imagine
That I can’t see the torn and slapped
Groped and grabbed women
Students who learn to adapt
Their innocence to this
New ‘security’: the name-tagged
Force, forcing a fresh
Resistance. The certainty
That there will be
No resurrection
Without insurrection.