I have a decade long tradition of writing a birthday poem. I didn’t publish last years, so here are two at once!
53 Year Old Birthday Poem
It was a year of staccato,
I stopped bleeding
I ceased sleeping
I halted writing
I broke up with sugar and beer,
we had feverish reunions.
I sat a lot
in a chair listening to clients,
in my bed googling -
my search words were
coronavirus, protests, election,
my reactions were fear, wtf, fear,
hope, wtf, hope,
over and wtf and over.
I wore a mask, I stayed mostly home.
I ordered books on antiracism
from black owned book stores
and diversified my podcast sources.
I promised my college daughter
I would donate money,
which I have not yet,
except for giving to my son’s neighbor,
a Haitian family whose restaurant burnt down.
I noticed there was a new minivan
in the driveway. It was black and shiny
and had a bedazzled “Queen” bumper sticker.
I was jealous given my old car,
I celebrated given the leaky roof
their landlord won’t fix.
I sat on a lush lawn with my son
and listened to local heroes
share histories of oppression.
It was hot and I ate a popsicle,
wondering if that was disrespectful.
I have a young woman I foster and mother,
I am not her foster mother, to be clear,
only time will tell
what we have been to one another
from the age of 12 to now, eighteen.
I do know she is calmer (mostly)
because she and I were sometimes an Us.
She is Black.
I have tried to not use her.
In the language of anti-racism,
to not virtue signal, but I think I am here
and I have in other places.
Her adoptive parents (white)
didn’t want to let her drive,
they deemed her too risky.
Most teenagers are
too
and
risky.
I put her on my car insurance
and bought her a car.
I helped her fill out a job application,
she got a job,
a college application, she got an acceptance.
My word for 53? Co-creation.
Co-creation looks like texting teenagers
from the drive thru, curly or straight fries?
I sit with them at the kitchen counter
eating sardines from little cans for the Omega 3s.
I steal curly and straight fries
for the omega pleasure.
I am starting to wear my silk blouses,
thrifted, they cost me little,
except my care for them.
They whisper from the closet,
encouraging elegance.
They are stacked like tissue paper on a hangar.
I have five of them -
one with ruffles, one with pleats,
one that suggests nipples
if worn without a bra,
shiny silk, textured silk, diaphanous silk.
I am wearing them under hoodies
I am going braless (thank you COVID).
I am moisturizing from stem to stern,
using oil from many climes,
CBD oil, Argan oil, coconut,
from my crow’s feet to ass crack to clitoral hood,
I am co-creating with lubrication.
I am 53 and a half now as I write this.
My best friend just turned 54,
she is six months older than I.
She bought a house with mustard colored paint
and brick red trim, so much trim.
As I helped, cutting in and brushing white paint,
I imagined my uterus,
with cells no longer filling and releasing scarlet,
it is now like the underside of a mushroom,
gills resplendent with spring water.
I imagined the previous owners
of my friend’s house
choosing paint chips while high on psilocybin,
back to the curly and straight fries, with ketchup.
Most women have roughly 500 periods,
it feels like it should be millions of days,
how we orient around it,
how we orbit the pre and post.
My marooning menses behaved
the way some roommates do
before you kick them out,
leaving the sink full of dirty dishes.
Its parting gift was a self-love
I wish for every woman.
I am finally softening, and finding
my soft flesh is so fine.
54 year old Birthday Poem
I have of late been tending
the physicality of my life,
after years of spirit and mind,
after acquiring some letters after my name
(that feel more about privilege
than any worthiness).
Still I celebrate getting paid to do
what I have always done,
(listen, tinker, encourage)
now officially with M.A. and L.H.M.C.
I am a CLAM, HAM.
I am MACA, a rooty herb used to reduce stress.
I really need a T
to be MATCH, CATCH, LATCH.
Back to the body,
I purchased a fancy blow dryer,
paid to have my toenails painted,
took a sexy selfie photo shoot
(hotel chair, blue velour hoodie,
unzipped to sternum).
All this body buffing
after two years of not bleeding,
assuming, summing that I am too old.
I am too young, and am returning.
I am reassessing pleasure,
this cycle not in relation
(not always anyway) to menses, a man.
I create a coral and pink bedroom,
I buy a painting with gold flecks and
another with waves on sand.
I had to choose a grandma name.
Baby darlings, you may call me Oma.
My 20 year old son rolled his eyes,
my 23 year old daughter joined him,
they don’t like sharing? me shapeshifting?
they are not done being mothered?
Oma is a distillation of mOMmA,
she is embedded within,
as were eggs when my daughter was born,
our DNA reaching back to still slimy ponds.
Oma gets to choose so many things.
When to hold the baby, when to pass the baby.
Sweetest liberty.
Sovereign. Ity.
A bitty bit.
Grandmothering is like breathing, so familiar,
and it is fantastically new,
all the wonder with less wearyworry.
Oma, a german name for grandmother.
Ommmmm, the universal sound from which all springs,
the symbol of oneness.
I was once a 20 year old
studying Hinduism in college.
My professor had long hair, brown like oak leaves.
One day she wore a dress
the color of spun butter,
the bottom of her skirt was tucked
into her panty hose, revealing her butt.
I leapt out of my lecture seat to warn her.
After five years of numbing biology and chemistry labs,
I came alive.
She illuminated not only her ass, but a pantheon,
offering permission to be blue skinned,
to keep praising and beseeching elephant spirits.
Aaaaaaaa.
My symbol for 54 is a horseshoe,
for sturdiness, cycles, luck, indeedy!
My grandmothers began circling my dreams,
in them still
women of fashion,
women of the half-eaten plate,
women who didn’t ask for enough,
as most don’t.
You can always go back,
and this Oma wears comfortable shoes,
warm gloves and perspective.
I like when the farrier
nails the horseshoe into the hoof,
how the horses don’t usually flinch.
I like picking out the hoof,
leaning into the horse until it gives you its leg,
scraping mud, shit, straw, grass, small stones.
I even like the anaerobic stench,
feel so helpful.