Your Birthday

How can I tell you that I did not love
you the day you were born.
That my first word to you was why,
my arms strapped down,
my head a balloon bumping against the ceiling.

How can I tell you that I did not love
carrying you. That you hijacked and invaded
every cell, locking doors once inside
a bundle of chaos and pain.

How can I tell you that I did not love
you at night—our world only
the seam of closet light and one confused bird.

How can I tell you that I saw your father
deflate with relief when I finally noticed

my love for you

which, like most lasting love,
grew so slowly covered in dirt, I overlooked it.

When you ask about the day you were born
and I find I must tell you these things, I will also tell you
that love is the salt-speckled used car

that got you through one last winter
every shift a prayer with cables in the backseat
for the battery that won’t hold a charge
when you play Russian Roulette with the engine

clutch worn down almost as far as the treads on the tires
you can’t afford to replace so you drive an extra mile to avoid
the hill with railroad tracks just in case
but you know life is better with it than without
because love is being grateful for your existence.

Andi Myles is a Washington DC–area science writer by day, poet in the in-between times. Her favorite space is the fine line between essay and poetry. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Longleaf Review, Tahoma Literary Review, and Brink Literary Journal, among others. You can find her at www.andimyles.com

‘Your Birthday’ first appeared in Beyond Words.