Numbers Only Matter in Gymnastics

 

Numbers Only Matter in Gymnastics

I joke when asked my age. But still, I'm pretty
certain my limbs were not designed for twists,
even at twenty-one. I flip my witty

opinions about splits and handstands, gritty
touch of toes to beam, curves of wrists.
I joke when asked my age, though I am pretty

over it. I cartwheel emotions. Pity
my childhood self—those falls I couldn't resist
even at twenty-one. I flip witty

retorts to those who'd vault me into cities
alive with Depends, tumbles, handstands missed.
I joke when asked my age, because I'm pretty

set on staying young. I shun maturity
(a springboard to a geezer's hand or kiss)
even at twenty-one. I ask a witty

question: Who made you the aging committee?
I Simone Biles my moves—a sexy list—
and joke when asked my age. I know I'm pretty.
Forever twenty, one tries to be witty.