Lowlight
My dress made of Mylar, cinched
at the elbows and hips. Like a helium
balloon, I can’t help fluttering
at the ceiling for a bird’s eye view
of the party: red punch cups spilled
on white carpet like a crime scene, gifts
already shredded open.
Caught in a loop,
the guests keep removing
their shoes as though approaching
a mosque doorstep. The music hiccups
to make a vocalist’s wail
cyclical, the needle scraping
as someone familiar and alien tries
and fails to light the silver candles.
Chattered words rise
into a headwind that hinders
my movement. I want to return
to where the cake will be sliced
and shared, to snuff the candles
no one can light anyway.
The closer I try to pull
toward the orbit of beloveds,
the greater the distance between us.