A Poem for Jeffrey on the Eve of His Thirteenth Birthday

the last day of twelve

was nothing special,

you said.

you didn’t dress for gym,

didn’t play four-square with

the others. only walked,

you said.

in English, you wrote

a myth…about Gusano—

it means “worm” in Spanish

you said.

this Graco-Spanish

worm-god found freedom,

you said.

but he led his people

back into the

earth to rule the Underworld

and that’s why he will

be responsible for

the zombie apocalypse.

you said.

and math was about

interest, like money and

banks, you know?

you said.

and you have homework

so you came home in

a bad mood and didn’t

want to talk about  twelve

you said.

so i hushed and got out

the eggs, cracked them one-by-

one in the bowl and mixed until

those yellow eyes are gone; i

rubbed grease on the pan that is

swathed in black enamel

from years of cradling sweet

batter…and i poured more

in. you at the table building

up interest when the room

starts to smell like a birthday.

and suddenly, you are there,

beside to lick the batter from

the bowl. what time was I

born?

you said.

Listen to it!

shared with nancy and the gang.