The Only Warm Breath at My Ear

I haven’t been to a Party City in decades,
but I remember the entire Over the Hill aisle
from when I was a child—
pitch-black paper plates,
balloons stamped with gravestones,
cake toppers already half in the ground.

Having never been
to an Over the Hill party,
I used to wonder
who decided this was festive.

Now forty has snuck up on me,
tiptoed behind my back,
hands over my eyes,
warm breath at my ear,
Guess who?

Over the past few weeks,
four people have told me,
“You’re still so young!”

None of them my age.
Most much older—
to which I can only laugh.
Of course I look young to you.

And one—
younger by a decade—
who texts it quickly.
Of course you’d say that.
You’re studying a book
you haven’t read yet
peek at my bookmark page
and return to your prologue.

Despite all this, I know
we are all on death row.
So what is it
tugging at my shirt hem—
death, finally impatient,

or the decade I walked into
alive, reckless with options,
and am now backing out of,
hands half empty,
unsure what next month
even wants from me?