Crossroads by Joyce Sutphen

Crossroads

by Joyce Sutphen

The second half of my life will be black

to the white rind of the old and fading moon.

The second half of my life will be water

over the cracked floor of these desert years.

I will land on my feet this time,

knowing at least two languages and who

my friends are. I will dress for the

occasion, and my hair shall be

whatever color I please.

Everyone will go on celebrating the old

birthday, counting the years as usual,

but I will count myself new from this

inception, this imprint of my own desire.

The second half of my life will be swift,

past leaning fenceposts, a gravel shoulder,

asphalt tickets, the beckon of open road.

The second half of my life will be wide-eyed,

fingers shifting through fine sands,

arms loose at my sides, wandering feet.

There will be new dreams every night,

and the drapes will never be closed.

I will toss my string of keys into a deep

well and old letters into the grate.

The second half of my life will be ice

breaking up on the river, rain

soaking the fields, a hand

held out, a fire,

and smoke going

upward, always up.

I know so many people with birthdays this month, this week, today, and although some of them may be beyond their halfway point in life, and some may not be near it yet, I love the message of this poem: we can make changes.

I love how Sutphen repeats the phrase "The second half of my life will be" at the start of each stanza, and how we are told, in order, "black, swift, ice." We are also given the same phrase in stanzas 1 and 2, ending with "water" and "wide-eyed." These are all such unusual words to use to finish this phrase, and compell us to read on.

And when we do, we are rewarded. The black around the moon is a strong image, and the water is nourishing and life-giving.

Swift and wide-eyed, the least surprising, become more surprising in the rest of the second stanza. These two lines in that stanza are especially wonderful to me:

There will be new dreams every night,

and the drapes will never be closed.

The last stanza, the shortest, has the ice image. Cold, hard, and not particularly something I want my life to be. But again, we must finish the sentence: the ice is "breaking up on the river" which signals melting, warmth, spring, renewal. The rest of this stanza continues in this vein of helpfulness and connection.

I love how the first two stanzas are mostly about the speaker, with some hints about being a part of the world (the water in syanza 1 and the open drapes in stanza 2). And although I am floored by the end of this poem, I admit to being equally bowled over by this set of goals:

I will land on my feet this time,

knowing at least two languages and who

my friends are. I will dress for the

occasion, and my hair shall be

whatever color I please.

I think this list of things to do when older have been accomplished by just about everyone (and possibly all of the women) I know who are at a certain age.

This poem was published in Joyce Sutphen's 1995 book, Straight Out of View by Holy Cow! Press. You can also find it here.