It was actually, actually my birthday. Barnacled
to the ancient, spilt-drink dance floor
when the queens hollered us celebrants up
to the front, I shook with all my clothes on

as I remembered how the penguins danced that morning
in their enclosure. White sand and clear ocean
wall-papered on the room’s walls, a little pool
for diving. Me in my good gold earrings, my lover

squelchy in rubber boots tall as the penguins, themselves
romantics, Blueberry ignoring our gaze to fetch Biscuit
a stone, Melody invariably warming her nest buoyed
by her lover’s tokens – plastic rings unlikely to choke

on. My lover gives me gifts, too: a rose
on the cover of a notebook, a green pen.
Sometimes he draws me as a crab.
I recognize my nose and eyes on a crustacean

form. Sometimes he takes us to see the animals
I loved so much as a child I said I wanted to be,
flightless diver, charismatic waddler, Oh! to never forget
my suit. Handsome girl. Under the bridge above the great Ohio

River the day is cold and clear. I wonder if this is the kind of climate

a penguin could love. Skimpy and scant
we skimmed the dark tall streets to the Birdcage
where I thought I glimpsed our biologist,
intern, bird-keeper in khaki and nametag, ushering

the queens through the waddle. I too
am not from here. Feed me sardines
so that my lover might smell my
salted guarantee: under all these lights you look

like a glacier. The penguins are home. Yes
they’re all gay. Who are we to anthropomorphize 
and who are we not to? My story’s not so special.
I shook my tush. I won a prize.