Imagine the Unrealities

I’ve chased my tail for thirty-seven years, September. And I would do us all well, my night of whittling wicks to waxen tears, to blow my wish that truths be lies we tell and birth a better version to review: The song for birthdays all my daughters sung, all three at once and all together, too - (a glint of giggle as I’m backwards flung and turned in somersaults across the room) - I’ve never made it past the birthday song when sung by conjured singers, once presumed, where all is and was and all I am is wrong to think September I’ve a right to face while playing “pirate ships” in outer space.