At Twenty-Eight

Last Sunday, I turned 28. So naturally, when I came across this poem, it felt like fate. Although my life looks different than the life Amy Fleury describes, I could still relate. Because some things are universal. Like dancing in your kitchen on a Friday night. I hope I’ll still be doing that when I turn 29.

It seems I get by on more luck than sense,
not the kind brought on by knuckle to wood,
breath on dice, or pennies found in the mud.
I shimmy and slip by on pure fool chance.
At turns charmed and cursed, a girl knows romance
as coffee, red wine, and books; solitude
she counts as daylight virtue and muted
evenings, the inventory of absence.
But this is no sorry spinster story,
just the way days string together a life.
Sometimes I eat soup right out of the pan.
Sometimes I don’t care if I will marry.
I dance in my kitchen on Friday nights,
singing like only a lucky girl can.

Amy Fleury


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