ON A 40TH BIRTHDAY
You remember presents piled high and tipping
on the living room rug, noisemakers shooting perfect
arrows of sound into the dining room
where the table was wreathed by balloons,
the cake enthroned in readiness,
frosting so soft you could burrow
your finger straight in,
the day when everyone took notice, as if you
wore a tiara of flashing light,
teachers and classmates, uncles
and aunts, even your big sister
who almost always hated you–
she smiled upon you then,
you who would one year turn 40, on a day
when the sky spit a heedless
chill rain, and your two best friends
were out of town, on a day when the babysitter
called in sick, and your daughter wouldn’t lie down
for her nap, for she was bubbling, chattering
about something—mama’s birthday—her mama
who waited in another room, one hour
folding evenly into another.
ANNIVERSARY
We didn’t mention it today, Mother–
all the things I wondered
about that wedding forty years ago
on this day in summer’s marrow.
I didn’t ask if you saw Lake Michigan
knife-blue as it was today,
if you heard the waves’ thunder,
whitecaps reaching out to you like arms on that morning
your father drove you to the church,
where the breath of incense, the deep well
of the cantor’s voice lulled you into believing
words and ritual
could change a man.
I didn’t ask
if after you passed through the gilt doors, the rice still spilling
through your auburn hair, if the trees were on fire
with this same green–pierced through with too much light
for the eyes to hold for long.
