TRAILER PARK WISHES

Erin Elizabeth

I.

Paneling peers from gnawed pink paint;
a yellowed window is cracked, open.
I lift my gaze from baby blue sheets
to a sunrise over double-wides.

Sweetgrass smoke from dad's special
cigarettes, occupies the house.
Voices outside mingle
in a riot of confusion.
It's painfully quiet after argument.
I hum the first strains of "Happy Birthday".

Black kittens gallop towards
my twitch of toe.
I pin their two front paws,
tendering the felines
with chubby fifth grade fingers.
I watch, across the road,
a blackbird shake a tree.

II.

I contort the past to fit beauty's mold --
cries warp into a symphony of songbirds.
Thirteen years prior I'd been born yellow.
Today I eat yellow cake alone.

Addicts gather here
in a room with chipped pink paint,
addicted to one another.
Listening from shady hallways,
I learned their serenity,
their longitudinal existence.

Pale blue sheets, neatly made,
point to me as a flower of an example.
I shiver on that plastic pedestal.

III.

Redundancy becomes recovery.
I chase down sixteen fireflies.
Happy birthday to me.

Slender fingers stroke the kitten grown;
his coarse fur reminding me of once beauty.
Navy blue sheets hide the blood
of virgin soil tilled.

Tugging on empathy now, I survive.
Imaginary friends call long distance
and clasp my hand through the line.

Blow out your candles.

If only I had
a tree to shake.