I don’t know if it was the combined birthday parties
With the Daytona 500 for Alex and me as children,
Or being told to shut up when I played
My saxophone that fateful night in sixth grade.
Maybe it was the standardized testing that took place
The first week of March in Connecticut,
Where the governor
Failed to recognize the importance
Of in-class celebrations for young, growing girls.
Maybe it was when my fifth grade teacher
Asked if my mom was going to bring something to share
With the class, not knowing we barely had enough money
To celebrate with just my family.
I don’t know if it was being reprimanded by my mother
For accidentally locking her outside of the house
During my first sleep-over birthday party,
Or Zandria commenting on how big
My hand-me-down bra was that same hour.
Perhaps it was her calling me a “bitch”
For having my period and feeling embarrassed
For being screamed at while my “closest best friends”
Were in complete ear shot of the argument.
“Sorry” did not cut it for mother.
I don’t know if it was my supposed
“Best friend” making out with the dude
I thought I loved the night before my 22nd
Or the makeup stain I left behind on the door
I smacked my face into at 8 a.m. on my 20th.
I don’t know if it was my aunt, uncle, and father
Cancelling on my birthday dinner at my favorite
Mexican restaurant a few years ago
Or the fact my sibling and their partner
Put in extra effort to help it hurt less.
All I know is that I’m sipping on a blue and white
High Noon can and the flavor of pineapples
Pricks my tongue as if I licked
The barbs of the fruit itself.
Samantha Cross is a first year MFA student at Western Connecticut State University studying poetry. Sam graduated from WestConn with a BA in Creative Professional Writing and Psychology. She loves to write about themes like family, femininity, and joy in all of its different and most simple forms. Sam spends her free time roller skating and dancing, which can also be found in her other work.
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Heavy Feather Review 