You tumbled down the stairs and crunched

your neck like a celery stick; legs erect, arms

splayed. It was such fun to see you hurting,

that first time surrender Sunflower-style,

stem frozen, facing eastward.

I stood and watched your eyes conk out,

pop off, sprout wings. There was no sadness,

no dupery, just a brash farewell celebration.

The type of party you only have when you’re

old and mad, when you stop biting your lip

or stop caring about bills, people, cars.