I’ve never been one for birthday wishes,
no birthday dreams or sueños blowing out candles,
no big quinceañera bashes full of Mexican sweets and traditions,
but even at my youngest I’ve always been
swept up by the encanto cósmico, the magical splendor of the cosmos.

I lay in bed the night of my seventh birthday
staring at the still dim evening light outside my blinds
as planetary truths rattled inside my mind,
remembering visions from astronomy books that would portend
the charmed human life I had waiting ahead.

A year orbiting around Sol is enough for a child to fathom,
but a millennium is inconceivable even for those born on its cusp,
yet I always knew, before spoken language,
before I was bilingual in describing cosmic mysteries,
that to be human is to be made of dust both Terran and interstellar.

My heritage stretches back generations and eons,
blending human cultures and galaxies
like the swirling stars of the Milky Way, la Vía Láctea,
each birthday candle representing a journey not of one,
but a fraction of eternity, the true encanto cósmico that gives life meaning.


Note: This poem also appears in Angela Acosta's Summoning Space Travelers (Hiraeth Publishing, 2023)