by Anna Wilkinson
It was my birthday yesterday. I missed my sister’s school play
to ride a pony around Church Street. The one that is stuck
to a center pole and goes around in a circle. My father waits
for me on the other side, holding a black camera. My sister
was Rosie in Bye Bye Birdie, the one who can speak
Portuguese and dance a little, I think. Today I let my body
turn in the sun. I am sick with the motion of movement,
this same movement that gets songs stuck in throats
and hands stuck in waving. I always smile for my final
show, when I’m rounding the corner. The other times
it’s a little like withering. I am not yawning. I am not
going to sit through this entire production. There’s
a cadence in hyphenating things — like an animal
stuck to the same center. My father came in, asking
for some birthday cake, asking why I tore up my
photo on the Steinway piano. I let him turn over
his thoughts. It’s all performance anyway — the piano
and the way I let my body turn. I used to play it
offstage for the production, and my sister used to dance to it
on a black and dense stage. I’m as old as the animal.
Anna Wilkinson is a sophomore aiming to double major in English and Environmental Studies.