26 Years Poem by Zachary Rice

In 26 years I can say with relative certainty
that any thought worth crying over
can turn into words worth cringing over.
And
when the best memories become dull
like a worn out razor blade,
we'll go out at night
and sit underneath constellations,
and hang from the blades of a porpillar,
and hold up slingshots,
and Latinize our names.
this is because Colombo didn’t discover America,
so we take no solace in defeating proper nouns.

every year I can stand on the edges of some lake,
or maybe it’s called sunlake,
but I know it could be any lake,
and there I’ll feel like Caesar visiting Alexander's tomb
because 33 is more than 26, which is one less than 27.

at just about any lake we can sit underneath constellations,
because I am the Colombo to a birth mark shaped like Hawaii,
I’ll always be the first to have gone,
but true love is being the last to leave.
so when I’m counting stars,
and thinking about intervals,
and looking into sunlake,
I remember that in another 26 years,
I can say with relative certainty
that my heartlessness
was my protecting the only one
I’ve got left.