One time, on vacation in Mexico,

the birds spoke to me.

I was twelve then—

all bones, Pepsi, and rebellion.

I didn’t understand their words.

I didn’t understand

the glowing feeling in my chest.

I didn’t know joy was better than getting high.

Because the first time I smoked,

it tasted like that lake

where my friends and I swam on summer break.

Like the lips of the girl

I was never supposed to kiss.

Like ocean water and ham sandwiches.

And somehow, doing those things

was easier than smoking

to forget I had done them.

The birds spoke to me again yesterday,

as I wandered through grief.

Still in Mexico.

Still twelve.

Somewhere in between.

The candles say I’m twenty.

Then forty.

Then fifty.

But I say,

I’ll always be fearless,

stupid,

and sixteen