Beetlebung and Kettlehole--April Poems

Birthday Party

It wasn’t the clown
his wild boa eyes without bottoms
giggling kids, or noise-makers
but the inner shape of me
the human sponge lifting up fears and secrets
when Mama stabbed her knife down to the hilt
into white cake with hot-pink frosting
the skin in her arms flapping back and forth
tactfully veiling a venom
in icy appraisal of my follies
as if my wiring were faulty, somehow.

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prompt: a birthday party