It’s the same celebration every year: 

the night sky explodes into a meadow of neon

 

dandelions, happy, so happy to be nothing

against the triumphant mouth of a giant 

 

baby, a new cousin eating each perfect puff

& showing Auntie & Uncle how much

 

of the world is already theirs. Everyone claps.

It’s true, I was there & saw the glinting

 

wristwatches & fool’s gold in their mouths. 

&, too, the emptiness when it’s over, 

 

when the baby is too full to continue weeding 

the sky, when everyone goes back inside to out-sing

 

each other at karaoke & I can hear  

the soprano notes I can’t hit, the beer clinking, 

 

the pretend goodbyes, the congratulations 

that never feel quite right, & the hollow 

 

left in the sky, asking why flowers 

have to explode every time we come together. 

 

But to tell you the truth: I’m sorry, I lied, I 

wasn’t there, I was two 

 

neighborhoods over, my parents asleep

& the glow of someone else’s firework show 

 

on my face as I sat in front of the TV, 

pretending to feel the earth rumble.