Darth Vader Frets on His Birthday

Vader looks at his reflection in the door and polishes his helmet.
He thinks the mask makes him look old and tired.
He palms the door control, and steps into the Emperor’s Throne Room.
All of his dark and evil friends are there.
Black and silver balloons line the room,
cosmic glitz is being served; all of this to celebrate him.
As if it mattered to the galaxy,
as if today was more special than yesterday, and maybe it is;
yesterday he was young.
He sees the photographer he’s hired in the corner and strides over to him.
He wants a holo taken while he still looks young, for the eventual book deal.
He wants to look roguish and dashing in his crisp black cape.
He poses: behind a desk, looking thoughtfully out of the window
at the Coruscanti sunset.
He regrets that he never got around to mynok hunting,
singing Corellian opera, and Force strangling Tarkin,
but that one was just for fun.
And then, just when things are getting maudlin
a storm trooper brings in a cake with purple trim and way too many candles on it.
Vader motions and no one sings.
He leans over, and with a wheeze
and a force wind, the job is done; smoke swirls about.
He sits down at the table, slumping a little.
Vader tries to foresee his next thirty years.
He sees the Death Star, his growing power, and isolation;
nothing wistful like love.
And then the party is all too happy.
He’s thirty and enough is enough.
Vader slams his fist down on the table.
The cosmic glitz goblets quake.
He is too old for all of this.
Everyone is looking at him like he’s going to give a Force-be-Damned speech.
He stands, glaring menacingly, and chokes out, “Thank you.”

Kim Malinowski received her B.A. at West Virginia University and her M.F.A. at American University. She is currently a student of The Writers Studio. Her work has appeared in Mad Poets Review and Mythic Delirium, and is forthcoming from Literature and the Arts, and others.