Published by the South Florida Poetry Journal (SoFloPoJo)

The first birthday
after you died we partied
as we thought you would have wanted us to,
silly paper hats and Mardi gras beads
and shots of tequila with limes to chase,
bar hopping until our heads filled
with fuzz and Pat’s words became blurry
and Justin had to lean on the bar
in order to get through the tale
of that time you went to a toga party
dressed in a clear plastic shower curtain
instead of a sheet.

The seventeenth birthday
after you died I sit alone at my dining table,
sipping on your favorite liqueur,
holding that picture of you in your
shower curtain toga, the plastic rings
a necklace, your toothy grin an aching
throb in my gut that I can’t share
with anyone because it’s been too long
for me to still be grieving publicly, because
what if you can see me and I don’t celebrate
and you’re angry at me, because
what if I forget you?