(Re)birthday

(Re)birthday
by Julia Lovett

The levees broke 72 hours before
I blew out 17 candles stuck in a
structurally sound carrot cake.

A chorus sings around my dining room table,
I drown in cheer while the water flows
into living rooms,
over balconies,
submerging rooftops.

Scrapbooks mildew as Mom snaps
shots for our own family albums.
Unwrapping presents,
the National Guard raps down doors
looters ransack memories.

I open a package; a newsreel streams:
Kayaks paddling on Lake Pontchartrain
(in the French Quarter)
Families cramming on top of home plate
in the Astrodome.
Corpses floating down abandoned city blocks.

A second line march without saxophones or beads—
thousands washed up on Houston’s dry shores.
Refuge. Relocation. But, return…?