TWENTY-NINE, GOING ON SEVENTY
Ok so fine, take my knees.
And my big toes.
Take my ankles and in general
take anything that needs to rotate fully
to keep my from limping.
While you’re at it, take my left eyeball to destroy depth perception
and take my hands because, sometimes, they get this eczema
stuff that’s really gnarly. Might as well just lop them off.
Please, will you take my ovaries?
Or at least the hormones that operate them
because seriously, they only get me all
worked up. And worked up is getting harder
and harder to pull off, what with a limp
and googley eyes and no hands and so forth.
And when I turn thirty, steal my breath
so that, try as I might
I may not blow out the candles.
I may not make a wish.
I may only sit and stare at the sad, sad cake
while the candles burn down.
The wax will be so beautiful.
The way it moves and melts with disregard.
How it bends so smooth, then cracks
when it finally cools. And there, right there
in the bubbled pink and pale green pools
goo-ed into the frosting, I will trace the wrinkles
of my grandmother’s face. See how happy she was
in her old age. Remember that she didn’t walk
for the last four years of her life.
And still, she smiled.