poetry

The Party

I was totally thankful for the party,

for the balloons that squeaked when you rubbed them

 and crepe paper like the skin of an old woman’s throat.

I was touched by the invitation on pink construction paper, 

my name spelled out in glittering stickers.

The silver letters were crooked, but the meaning was the same.

We whistled like birds,

and gorged on cookies and cake.

My heart quickened by sugar, 

lips red from fruit punch, 

brown crumbs under my fingernails.

Sweat was mashed to our skin,

panting on our bikes as we left the party.

The sickly sweet feeling of being too full and too sticky

we stopped at the park,

rolled on the cool grass and 

decided to count the clouds.

Then a man in sunglasses came, with a black mustache.

I could see our faces in the reflection of the lens, mouths agape 

in timid horror.

He said we were pretty,

and asked for directions to the elementary school.