Pink gasps. This is not what I imagined
of my life, the animal’s ass
rubbed bare
from years in the public zoo.
 
They do not say “at second
blush” and there’s a reason
for that.  Desire is unbecoming
at forty, and shame shameful. 
The colobus meets my eyes.
 
But there’s a story in which 
pink doesn’t follow red, 
white or anyone’s girlhood;
it’s simply the beginning of light 
going down on the water.  
 
Though it’s hard to anticipate 
an exact dark, I should try to
let go of this burning 
and witness, eyes closed, 
the metallic scent of its passage,
incipient changes of heart.
Jill Leininger is the author of two poetry chapbooks.  She lives and writes in Seattle, WA.