My dress made of Mylar, cinched
            at the elbows and hips. Like a helium

balloon, I can’t help fluttering
            at the ceiling for a bird’s eye view

of the party: red punch cups spilled
            on white carpet like a crime scene, gifts

already shredded open.
                                  Caught in a loop,

the guests keep removing
            their shoes as though approaching

a mosque doorstep. The music hiccups
            to make a vocalist’s wail

cyclical, the needle scraping
            as someone familiar and alien tries

and fails to light the silver candles.
            Chattered words rise

into a headwind that hinders
            my movement. I want to return

to where the cake will be sliced
            and shared, to snuff the candles

no one can light anyway.
            The closer I try to pull

toward the orbit of beloveds,
            the greater the distance between us.