It is August

So that was it.
Take down the ribbons.
Eat the leftovers
Push it in, tuck it in
shut it down
neat trick.
That was it.

Sometimes a birthday lasts and lasts
some are drowned
and some are closed.
This one ought to be shut tight.
Perhaps that just me.
She is sixty.
She will say:
"It was wonderful"
It was hard.
And sometimes, a little bit wonderful.

She has rich auburn hair
her skin is plump and fresh, a pink lipped rose in a bunch of jonquils
her eyes are a blue and sparkling sea
she smiles
It is August.
she is sixty.

The food was yellow.
Butter.
Bread.
Ham.
Cheese.
And spinach because it was French, you know.
A little bit of onion, SO French.

There are crepe paper ribbons
they are red
They drapse from the rafters like the guts of bombs in plays by kids
crinkled and twisting.
There are helium balloons
they are red
ribbons trail from their puckered assholes
to the floor
they're kinda spooky
bobbing their noggins on the ceiling
waving their tails
like they're trying to
get out.

She takes the balloons in a bundle in her hand
With camera's poised at our faces to catch her
she stands up high on her toes on a bench on the corner of the deck
and throws fifteen red balloons up into the air

red and escaping
the sky is thick with bluegrey thunder clouds
and a few thin rays of weak sun stream through in patches
up they float past the tallest gum trees and away.
What am I letting go? She asks
As if she doesn't know.