Birthday

 

Seven generations, maybe more,

prepared for me, raked clear

fallen cypress and ginseng,

confiscated promises so

I would learn to endure

all that is brash and beautiful.

 

In time, nostalgia’s seductive

harangue expired quietly,

leaving a languid pair of

flippers whose only

reserves fluttered homeward.

 

Spies and chivalry were part of it,

stonings, mandatory sentencing,

waterfall witnessing too. Who is to

say what is deserved, having

been born perfect into a world

designated for pain?

 

I sometimes despise my life;

it is one and the same as my

worst thinking. Broadcasting,

bread baking, sitting still in

corners, receiving summonses,

standing up straight, the

gorgeous gray waves of winter.

 

In the best of times, we

are given no choice. The body

takes its care, knowing when to

shut down and funnel possibilities

into a single electrified stream,

raging and dangerous.

 

I have learned to harness

barriers and punt obstacles;

my confusion lies in the

aftermath, having been picked

by ancestral hands. Nothing

is understood: Enter faith,

a chasm of folly. We cling

to the air as we fall.