Birthday
Learn to love your fate, I am told. What a foolish
thing to say on such a flavorless day. The sun is shining.
I come home, empty my pockets, and stand at the dresser,
clearing my throat and feeling as though I inch
along a tightrope, thinking, What a sham I am, what
an impostor. I was left to figure out a lot of things
on my own. For example: We are only as safe
as our neighbors’ wiring. Surely life is handled
by chance, the floor is mostly air, and I can be
replaced. Who exactly is in charge? The universe
stays mum. It is not yet evening, yet I am in my pajamas.
The plumbers are still at work downstairs making holes
in the walls and cursing. The radiators clang at intervals.
The dog gnaws on his rubber toy shark. It will be spring
soon. Sometimes I almost go out to shop for sandals,
but I would wander the aisles and wonder if being
is as good as doing. Be and be and be. I refuse to hear
that suffering is brilliant, noble, and holy. I used to feel
as though I was juggling flaming torches; now
my arms hang at my sides. I take up this much space.
Wouldn’t you like to light a fire under my backside?
I’d do it myself but can’t kindle much through these
stupid tears. I’ll tell you what I’ve learned to love:
dessert. I could wander off for ice cream,
but I’m too curious to leave before the end.
Karen Wolf is a painter who teaches at the Harrington College of Design. Her poems have appeared most recently in Animus, Diner, and The Mochila Review. She lives in Chicago with her husband, printmaker Duffy O’Connor.
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