conjure a grin

Amy Marvin

Spending so much of the twenties shooting
the shit about how old we are when
suddenly the real thirty comes strolling
up and knocks you flat on your ass.

Dragged, wet and dripping, through new years
grizzled and younger. Afraid it’s about to all start
when finally I can say I’m an old man now,
and a lonesome gal in Oregon. Gone,

walking to the counter to return my Saturn.
“It’s broken,” I say, when it’s really not.
I’m just tired of carrying the damned
thing so I hurl my knapsack to a nearby bin.

If I sold all my baking skills to the devil,
turning some tricks with him for a cauldron
then mercilessly dumping him, I’d conjure a grin
so bright this city would implode into starlight.