Once per decade
Every single cell in the body
Self-slaughters and rebirths,
But my soul crumples inward
At my stubborn lack of newness.
Arithmetic hounds me
On my thirtieth birthday:
30 x 365 (+8 sly leap) days
Dang, girl! I'm 10, 958 days old.
But how many millennial moons
Did I marvel at?
I remember how starlight
Over the playground used to slant
Clean straight into my spirit,
Back arching in the swing
Limbs reveling ever higher
Until the chains rattled against
Evening airs, daring the sky
To snap my fragile flesh
I wasn't afraid of falling then—
I don't care how much it hurts,
I'm going to howl at the moon
When I hit eleven thousand.
*(I wrote this 10 years ago...here's to reveling in whatever moonlight is ours!).
YOU ARE READING
Prickmedainty Poetry
PoetryFor all those who broke their glass slipper and still search for stars in the shards.
