Were I in my prime
I wouldn’t be in this bind,
never mind the provocation,
its sharpened gleam.
I wouldn’t have flown
an obsolete army jet
or hovered above
the provocateur
(who’s been after me
since God knows when).

Still, I’m proud
to have hung in the air,
dropped nothing but a hint.

Were an onlooker
I’d envy me – the plane,
its ammunition, my choice
to withhold. I wouldn’t have
guessed that a woman this old
might prefer a shameful memory
to her lonesome prospect.