The Day After My Birthday
Balloons, cards, cakes, candles, fireworks that won’t explode,
my mom and dad, aunt and uncle, alive again, returned to their childhood homes,
I can visit them if I remember, if I discover the way,
past the neon mall in Rochester where I sat on Santa’s lap when I was five,
strangers pass me on the street, wish me happiness, promise me gifts next time
like puzzling artifacts from dreams, a keyboard, a costume,
Tibetan monks swimming in a perfectly landscaped rock quarry,
the shotgun I told the detective to destroy,
a box of French lemons and Brazilian honey cake,
the sound of some party I can never find,
all tomorrow’s plans are cancelled,
the crossing of the river, the ferryman angel,
an evacuation, a journey.
This new life has begun.
©JEF
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