Affirmations for My Twenty-First Year
by Lauren Mills
I am tensile and easily missed. I am choral, and archaic, and autumnal in fashion.
When the temperature drops, I wear a sensible pair of stockings that attract
a sensible amount of attention. I am wild-footed. I am uneven in an interesting
way. When there is singing, I listen. I believe in jackalopes and the miracle of modern
medicine. I am trustworthy. I am the end of a bloodline. When there is not
singing, I will ask for there to be singing.
A lover (lover! Lover, lover) once said I was a flashlight cutting through
the dark pier of “something, like, life, maybe?” She was not a good poet. This year,
I am no one’s flashlight. I will tell lovers (lovers!) forget your wavering, cut the shit,
you should not need me to know where to step. And anyway, you know how to swim,
don’t you?
I am tall. I am tawny and approachable. Where there is love to be found, I am
a good hunter. When the moon rises, I offer traditional greetings. I am funny.
I am funny, funny, funny. I am not a flashlight, I am something hotter. Fire,
why not! I burn your eyes. I burn your tongue. I burn your mother’s hands
when she takes me out of the oven. I am a blackberry cobbler baked fresh.
I am an East Coast native. I am kind. I am the hand of gnarled oak clawing
at a telephone wire. I am kind. I climb bare-bodied birches in winter and watch
my breath. I am light and breezy. When lovers say I am anything, I will say, “No,
I am not.” I am kind. I am a friend to cats and children. I have a certain allure. I leap
off cliffs and build houses where I land. I am kind. I will be kinder.