I never gave a damn about my birthday—
good, since Mother forgot sometimes.
Days later she’d pour off the cream
warmed by the woodstove, skimmed daily
from our cow, and bake a rock-bottom cake:
egg-yolk yellow, no frosting, no frills.
I begged for candles; she struck matches,
planted them in the crust and set it down.
No ceremony—smell of sulfur, quick flames,
and all of us leaning in to blow.
First appeared in Trampoline – A Journal of Poetry, March 2026