FOOL'S GOLD
It’s the same celebration every year:
the night sky explodes into a meadow of neon
dandelions, happy, so happy to be nothing
against the triumphant mouth of a giant
baby, a new cousin eating each perfect puff
& showing Auntie & Uncle how much
of the world is already theirs. Everyone claps.
It’s true, I was there & saw the glinting
wristwatches & fool’s gold in their mouths.
&, too, the emptiness when it’s over,
when the baby is too full to continue weeding
the sky, when everyone goes back inside to out-sing
each other at karaoke & I can hear
the soprano notes I can’t hit, the beer clinking,
the pretend goodbyes, the congratulations
that never feel quite right, & the hollow
left in the sky, asking why flowers
have to explode every time we come together.
But to tell you the truth: I’m sorry, I lied, I
wasn’t there, I was two
neighborhoods over, my parents asleep
& the glow of someone else’s firework show
on my face as I sat in front of the TV,
pretending to feel the earth rumble.