Twenty-five: Confetti

*I intend this poem to be the first of a series of birthday poems--snapshots of what I am experiencing as my age turns.  I'll be twenty-five on September fifteenth.

I stole the peonies

that reminded me

of my great-grandmother.

They blossomed

effusively

through the fence—

which I did not mention

as I gripped the chain link

against a kiss,

also stolen

and displayed.

Heads of pink petals—

obscene cabbages

that shed their bounty

overnight, and left

refuse on my nightstand. 

***

I wake late
and hung-over
before the ceremonies

of a dead elder

and wedding friends.

Top down, we drive
over hills that were
mountains.

In the back,
my eyes closed
against the rush and light—

sound of struggling
underwater 

and illumination
of inner eyelids.

I sit in a pew,

my hair askew,

and proceed
to consume

the Perfect Body
saturated in wine.

***

My mind a child’s

folded fortune teller,

a different future

under every flap.

Mansion, apartment,

or shack—all of  paper.

But now I have a house

with bones and square feet.

I spackle

the bullet holes

and paint over—
exuberant teal.

My colored
and white crusted

palms testify
to the cover up.

I scrub them

in the sink,

laden with crystal,
and I think

how the broken wine
glass glitters

prettily, like spent
sweat or semen.
 

I sweep it up,
admonished

to forget
the cabernet

and his solid form—

We are enraptured
by shattered things,

which never catch
this light intact.

***

My loveliest dream

happened in a sewer:

Tiny orange
and fuchsia hearts

from yards of crepe
paper—

we punched them out
ourselves.

Our pockets filled
with extras

soaked in refined
sugar and  rum

stuck to our hands
and mingled tongues.

Intending

to take the city—

we slide grates 
and descend

to taint the water

with saccharine seeds.
Confetti.