We’ve finally reached the last
summer birthday party, for a child
who doesn’t quite get the bright animal hats,
noodles of color on plates and cups.
Parents with tidy frog bellies
and minivans portion out
plastic shovels, trucks and dolls,
their hands thick with diplomacy.
A feathery, blood-red papier-mâché bull
hung from a low branch catches the eye.
But why blindfolds on a day this hot,
children wild-eyed and quivery?
First a blond boy, then his sister,
then an adopted girl from China,
goaded by parents with college degrees,
stab at the animal, swing at the beast.
Pretend it’s your older brother,
your mother’s doctoral director.
They beat the air with dull conviction
unaware of what feels good
about connection, the strike
felt back in the shoulders,
the shock of something solid.
Parents hold their breath and watch.
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