On Turning Thirty
No one microwaves leftovers, we order in.
I haven’t prayed since 1996.
In temple the cantor was always tuning her guitar
& the metal folding chairs squeaked.
Is hypnosis dead?
I feel about as sexual as a frying pan.
At this age Sylvia had sheaves of poems,
two kids &—
my aura drips like a sieve.
According to the internet, the small ache
in our chest derives from artificial sweeteners,
anxiety, too much aptitude.
Better that than bad genes or apathy.
I wish I thought I’d be married by now.


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