handprints

today I turned six years old

and my cake melted on the porch

beneath candle flames dying like the sun in the evening

today I learned the meaning of cold

it wasn't an ice cube down your back

that was a relief around here if anything

today I heard sound of his hand across her cheek

and I knew that was what it meant to freeze

it wasn't sweet like a popsicle

it was nauseating as heat stroke

but with the bite of a rattlesnake

I clapped my hands over my ears watching the sky change color through the screen door

and I pretended that the muffled sounds

was someone singing happy birthday to me

today I turned six years old

and I learned to cut my own cake

and and how to eat alone