Birthday
She vomits on the tire swing,
an ominous beginning.
Over breakfast, she told me
she wants to stay three.
How do I explain time’s arrow,
always departing Grand Central?
She is four. No one can cheat
the fourth dimension’s heave.
I police the piñata bat.
It slips from my hand.
I intercept a wild whack
just inches from her face.
3 replies on “Birthday”
favorite line “how do I explain time’s arrow,/always deparating Grand Central?” This is their childhood for me, it is all just click-clack train departing away.
lovely poem.
xo
this is GREAT. i love it. the violence and sickness against the sweet, delicate age. so true to life.
I can feel this poem, I remember the bat. Bitter sweet, beautiful.