by Olivia Bardo
It was never like the movies.
Never an emergence into a place
That was teeming and alive.
A vibrant overture.
It was never pink.
Never a glowing silence.
Before bursting light.
Silence bursting with light.
Maybe it was the candles tilting
Into a paste tasting like shortening.
Where was my magic, the sensation
Of taking one more trip around the sun,
Celestial being that I was?
It was January.
And I should have known I would be here,
Beautiful and tragic,
A fleck standing on the edge of a globe
Dragging me gingerly toward the coldest stars.
For my birthday, I think
I’d like a scarf.
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