Birthday
After Marc Chagall's painting, "The Birthday"
What do you do—
when there's no man
jumping backwards
off your bed—
pausing mid-air
to reach around
and kiss you
as you're crossing
the room for a vase?
There's cake to be cut
in this figment—
a cup, and
a feeling of being
upstairs.
But here,
there's no man
in a green jumper
with black hair
and Derby
shoes.
It's February.
And this year it's
different:
no hunger
for the trappings—
just one
for a target
of one's affections.
Love—
remaining in its
cavity—
will it grow rancid?
Can there be
a stagnation
of one's heart?
And where
is this Love—that
isn't?