Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Six 2004 |
Frag [Birthday Song]:5.2 Daniel Stewart Sunday was your birthday, and today, wind, it’s fingers on my face cold as blessing. We find ourselves alive, everyday, unsurprised: rise, buoyed on breath and light. We find ourselves. Everyday. Surprise. And this tide strands something flailing, gasping, Wounded by air, on the shore. Buoyed by wind and night we court reprise. * Breeze, bruise, wheeze, lose. Us in our longing. * You look no different. Your sun-licked skin glows inside out light puddles beneath smooth layers. We placed ourselves in houses, found ourselves spouses. No longer furious as bees, we crowned ourselves in flowers: spring sky flashes its blue breasts, covers itself with clouds – O tease, what wings are these, frail and twitching? * The day of your birth passed and I did not call. It was Sunday, I was weary, I was wary, I was wanton. Did your love give you flowers, did your love make you breakfast? Did she spread herself on you like hive-hoarded honey, thick, sweet gold [your skin]. Did your love sing through your pores, flood you, anoint you with rose water? Did love bring the bread of her body to your lips? Did she wing through you like birdsong? We never were alone those nights of drink, dance. You were a clock; love, time. I courted seconds like hours (love me not, love me true,) waiting for arms though fingers would do. Nothing that’s been built can be saved, that’s true. But here we are. Still me, still Spring [wind]: rouge these pale shine these tearing – God’s fingers are in us what right have we to rue – |
About Daniel Stewart |