(Half-)Birthday Poem

I set alarms with my smart phone that wake me when I sleep lightest,
that throw open night time windows so the rain can clean my dreams.

It’s my birthday. I want some goddamn coffee,
but twenty-five years has brought two roommates -
one won’t leave until 11,
the other won’t leave at all -
and my good-intentioned 6 a.m. will disturb them.
So no coffee.

It’s a running day, but I can’t be bothered with the rain.

It turns out at twenty-five,
all girls develop teleportation powers that can only be used at great cost;
this is how your mother always managed to be where you needed her to be,
every time.
It’s also how she aged so quickly in your teenage years.

Most spend the years off their life on their children,
I’ll spend mine on you
and chasing nightmares out of your firstborn’s bedroom -
teaching her how to make shadows into soldiers,
the wolf in the walls into an ally,
the witch in the corner into Jesus.

I’d teach you but true love negates all monsters.

It’s my birthday.
I’m going running in the rain.