Origami of Wrapping

The cake is a strange
ornament on the table,
haloed by candles burning
ridiculous in the day.
The song in the background
by family obligated to
an occasion, not an allegiance
to me and I am amused
at how it is known and unspoken.
I try to be grateful for the parcels, even their
impending disappointments masked
by paper cosmetics and
the origami of wrapping, almost
like my guests enveloped
in their own gift bags to conceal
bad surprises. I am fixated by the quickly
wizening candles. Brittle
black wicks stripping pure
girl pink into irregular puddles
on cream, no past grace
of sculptured spirals and form.
The flames quaver before dying
from my sweep of breath.
I feel the candles’ relief,
extinguished from their duty.
There are cheers as I await
 the largest token slice.
25 crumbling in my mouth,
a new year that tastes tentative,
and everyone’s subsequent departure,
sweet.