Birthday Poem
by April Freely
H.F. (father)
9/20/49 – 8/12/2000
A. F. (poet)
8/12/1982 –
I had been thinking of coffins
while lying in my childhood
canopy bed, at 28, watching
Grey Gardens on repeat, the house
folding in and over the mother-daughter
as I folded into the wedge between bed
and wall and thought: baby blue satin
folds of my father’s mahogany, or oak
or was it blue, or was the light red upon it?
The areca palm, the lily, or red carnation?
Weak flower of this Ohio. Though I grew
nothing during these years, I thought
of the Pothos crowns from my old place
in Iowa, and the tornado that blew into
the apartment, wrecking leaves, knocking
off plants from hooks: a hole in the room
I could walk right out of—and then what?
Two stories above the spoiled magnolia
I loved without sense, though I knew next
year the blooms would be back three-fold.
My blooms? The night of the tornado, I sat
on the kitchen floor open to stars above
as a grey-blue cloud began to cover each light
like the weathered cedar shake in the Gardens
where you might lie down first, or be laid down
into position from which to beat out of the body
a language like fists, or rocks—this is not
the first time I woke up in a cedar shake
thinking of delicately twisted birthday candles
thinner than a finger, or the blue flame
underneath the light, like the half-moon
cuticles of the little baby I can’t have.
April Freely's work has appeared in American Poetry Review, Ninth Letter, Gulf Coast and elsewhere. She has received fellowships and awards from Cave Canem, the Ohio Arts Council, Vermont Studio Center, Tulsa Artist Fellowship and Provincetown Fine Arts Work Center. She lives and works in New York City.