Happiness, that fatted calf, hangs

from the ceiling by a thread. Silly-eyed

and frilly, the piñata teases, swaying

like a plump ballerina above the birthday

party guests. When the blindfold goes on,

when laughter and light disappear,

I’m told to thrash the high darkness

until I hit it. Look at me: the village idiot

shaking my fist at the night sky, taking

jabs at its flank, hoping to stab the elusive

cloud, to start a shimmering candy river

for all the thirsty villagers below.

I know they watch from behind the windows

of their dark homes, dreaming the red gold rain.

We each want a taste of it, thirst for it, want it

to fall in our hair, to bounce from our palms,

to get on our knees and thrust our fists

into its shattered rainbow shards.

We won’t stop until the last sun-flaked drop

spills, until every piece of joy’s flash flood

is gone. And when it’s done, when we’re all

singing over short candles, slurping blood-red juice

from our thumbs, playing with our new toys—

after the lucky kid fishes one last piece

from the sea of wrappers, we’ll be sure

not to look up—where that gutted cardboard carcass

arcs like a hung God, dragging like a sharp

pendulum over our heads, a drained slab on a hook,

a reminder of the dry season, of need and loss

and the empty hours we’ve all long forgotten.