Another poem, really about aging. It's called 'Who's Joking with the Photographer? Photographs of Myself Approaching Seventy"

Who’s Joking with the Photographer?

Not my final face, a map of how to get there.
Seven ages, seven irreversible layers, each
subtler and more supple than a snake’s skin.
Nobody looks surprised when we slough off one
and begin to inhabit another.
Do we exchange them whole in our sleep, or
are they washed away in pieces, cheek by brow by chin,
in the steady abrasions of the solar shower?
Draw first breath, and time turns on its taps.
No wonder the newborn’s tiny face crinkles and cries:
chill, then a sharp collision with light,
the mouth’s desperation for the foreign nipple,
all the uses of eyes, ears, hands still to be learned
before the self pulls away in its skin-tight sphere
to endure on its own the tectonic geology of childhood.

Imagine in space-time irretrievable mothers viewing
the pensioners their babies have become.
“Well, that’s life, nothing we can do about it now.”
They don’t love us as much as they did, and
why should they? We have replaced them. Just as we’re
being replaced by big sassy kids in school blazers.
Meanwhile, Federal Express has delivered my sixth face –
grandmother’s, scraps of me grafted to her bones.
I don’t believe it. Who made this mess,
this developer’s sprawl of roads that can’t be retaken,
high tension wires that run dangerously under the skin?
What is it the sceptical eyes are saying to the twisted lips:
ambition is a clich?, beauty a banality? In any case,
this face has given them up – old friends whose obituaries
it reads in the mirror with scarcely a regret.

So, who’s joking with the photographer?
And what did she think she was doing,
taking pictures of the impossible? Was a radioscope
attached to her lens? Something teasing under the skull
has infiltrated the surface, something you can’t see
until you look away, then it shoots out and tickles you.
You could call it soul or spirit, but that would be serious.
Look for a word that mixes affection with insurrection,
frivolity, child’s play, rude curiosity,
a willingness to lift the seventh veil and welcome Yorick.
That’s partly what the photo says. The rest is private,
guilt that rouses memory at four in the morning,
truths such as Hamlet used, torturing his mother,
all the dark halftones of the sensuous unsayable
finding a whole woman there, in her one face.

from Poems 1955 - 2005 (Bloodaxe, 2005), copyright ? Anne Stevenson 2005, used by permission of the author

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