The birthday that even time forgot
What is this subterfuge, this deceit,
this falsehood? Is it the meat defrosting
on the countertop or a clap of thunder
on a stormy night?
My mother reaches out for a Gemini,
a sister
(and not the Greek, not the Stoic,
not the philosopher, not the poet)
gripped by the clay hands of Europe
My mother turns (albeit clandestine) into a
statue in her bed
(my mother and father sleep in separate beds)
While I am masked by discontent
I give but there is no one to receive my love
Except the broodvraers and the children,
the pale niece and academically gifted nephew
I reach for the sun and wait for it to
burn me up
Birthday, you are nothing
but a worm, a stubborn ventricle. The years,
they pass me by solemnly. My mother
comes with breakthroughs, intent and
intelligence, the frailties of life that I
inherited from her, cosmic dust under
her feet, and so she comes
to life. Without acknowledging me, she
floats into the bathroom to do her ablutions,
and put her mascara on. There is no food
in the house
There is no mother-love. There is no
birthday cake, no jubilation. There is
only sadness. Sadness and oranges in a basket
in the sitting room that I am not allowed
to touch because it is for show. My sister,
oh, well, does not wish me.
She does not say the words I long to hear,
the words that will make me forgive her
long silences. Happy Birthday. She has no reason
to speak to me and then, just then, a rhizoid
forms in my heart. This rhizoid is made of
dark matter.
The same matter the universe is made
of (dark matter). The church grows in
my spirit man, at the seat of Gary
Zukav’s soul, and while I turn into a
silhouette
of the past, I think of my childhood, and my inner
child waving goodbye to me. I think of
Goethe, Rilke, Thomas Mann. I think
of the Freedom Fighters in Gaza, I think
of the brain rot of my clinical depression
and regain
my strength, and the language of breath
is slowly returned to me.
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Professionally penned down. I enjoyed reading it!