Arsenic Lobster poetry journal        Issue Six   2004
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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

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