Dear Life,  

now that I am older than myself,

I want time to stop making creases in

my bodily clothes, I want my memory

to send all the more or less loved princes

and other charming heroes down the path

of oblivion just like it did to Maya the Bee,

to Pippi Longstocking and to the braids I cut off.

Now that I am older than myself I don’t want

the chinking of glasses, congratulatory

wishes, “No one could tell by looking at you.”

Now that the night is older than me, I wish for myself

for my birthday a visit from the moon:

considerately, like a hairdresser with an old

customer, she combs out my earthly body’s hair.