To the tune of Happy Birthday
No sooner did the singing start,
did my tears pore out.
With the heaviness of being squished
into smaller and smaller amounts
and further and further bursts.
I can’t be any smaller than this,
no less unhurried,
no longer poised.
You’ve been stirring me
and out of that stirring
something must come forth.
Something has been witnessed,
is not yet forgotten,
won’t fade into a corner
or hang like a too expensive scarf in my closet.
It’s not like skipping the chance to dry your hair,
or skipping breakfast for another morning.
It’s not a pill you can find in it’s Tuesday compartment.
It’s not anything that’s festered and magnified.
It’s only what it always was.
Too easily managed.
Too neatly organized.
Full of screams and torturing sobs.
Sobs that swell with the notes of a piano.
A piano that can’t take my pain and prepare a jubilee.
The disquiet roams,
as birthday invites our reappearance and revival,
and recitation of what is irreducible,
and given alongside every birth pang.
Wander as you are inclined,
but wander back.
Be aware that the sun’s rotation
is ever orbiting the same path.
As we change the world
As we neglect our planet
As we puncture our body’s thread line to our divinity
As we are decaying with a distracting podcast playing
As we hold only anything sturdy enough.
With quivering lips,
With unurgert hands,
With numbing tear ducts,
With unpracticed vocal chords,
May something again puncture us further.
Like a birth canal.
Like a puddle jumper.
Like an angel sighting.
Like a state sanctioned killing.
Like a child who lived over their childhood.
Like a body still bold to sound that we have revolved around the sun again.
As we will again,
as long as we’re here.