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Wednesday, September 13, 2006

candles.__

I’ve gotta be honest brother,
I don’t remember your seventh birthday.

I bet you made a castle out of kid clay-
bright colored lumps of moosh in little yellow plastic containers.
Wrapping paper shreds and crayon shavings
covering the light brown floor like the sprinkles on your cupcake.

Multicolored building blocks – the foundation for your birthday fort
guarded by dark green soldiers forever stuck in plastic limbo –
new recruits of course, sent just that day – your bucket brigade.

We’d have sat at our dining room table, the old one,
the one with the right leg propped up on the tom selleck t.v. guide,
sat with the warm smell of chocolate cake, which has mixed
with the Kool-Aid smell in your cup.
Pointy hat for me, kazoo for you.

Mom and I just wishing watchers,
would’ve waited for you to wish for something.
Wish for something magnificent.

No, I’ve gotta be honest brother, I don’t remember that at all.
I remember all my birthdays-
with my tightly taped boxes and forts unguarded.

I remember Mom and I always sat at the dining room table, the new one,
the one with the left leg propped up on the ’93 Reader’s Digests.
Mom cut the cake and plopped a candle on top.

I sat in front of my piece and puffed out my chubby cheeks.
Mom sat with me,
always knowing what my wish would be.
I tucked my lungs and sucked the air, trying not to spit on the exhale.
I always wished for something magnificent.

I wished that you were alive.
I wished that you’d made it from the womb.
I wished you hadn’t come too early.

I wish and dream for us together,
a childhood of birthdays; eternity in a wish.
A world of G.I. Joe’s and Lincoln Logs,
watching cartoons until the candle blows out
and our world inside a wish is gone.