GOTCHA
Someone signs a piece of paper: the past becomes a stranger. The adults have tucked yesterday away, marked it forbidden. They have baked a cake & lit a single candle. A banner & helium balloons. Pictures are taken: smiles all around, though some of them dangle askew like crescent moons or sickles. The adults play ball with words: lucky, blessed, family, home, forever. Mom says all her prayers were answered. No one asks about the tunnel Bracket digs beneath the living room floor. Hair hangs in her face, obscures her moving lips. She slides her way along until she has disappeared behind the big blue couch. No one hears what she buries beneath the carpet. The celebration carries on into the night. No one sees her there, reciting silently her new name.
This poem was originally published in the summer 2015 issue of VoiceCatcher.