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Birthday poem. Still sick and hacking, but buoyed by all the birthday wishes on the book of face. There are several former students on my wall, currently, including the one always disappears and who I wrote a “good thing you are still alive” poem for not too long ago. My recent bout of illness caused a crimp in Hp’s plans for this birthday, which is a good sign because HE HAD PLANS!!! this is a huge development. Really, worth celebrating.

I have to go to bed soon, but first I’m going to poem all the birthstories I know.

A 7/22/1981 Poem.

Birth Stories

Here, here is the birthstory we all know by heart, the one Dad will tell anyways, after the cheesecake and berries, of how he saved my life by turning that old Toyota back on that dirt road, back to the hospital. Here is the story of big ole surprise me wrapped in foil like a baked potato, here is the story of the sunrise from a helicopter.

This here is the story of you, how they sent me off to get my hair braided for hours, and then you came, and they brought me down, but wouldn’t put you on the floor to play with, and they wouldn’t believe me when I said you would be a girl someday. How I remember Puff the Magic Dragon, the movie, on the TV when you got locked in the bedroom for you jaundice, by accident.

There’s a shadow story, baby Carrie. Shadow of shadows.

These are the stories I inherit, and this, this is the mud on the tires. How it rained when you were born, and how I told him not to speed, but screamed anyway. How you were born by candlelight, in the bathtub, and how they passed you off to him after, to take care of the bleeding, and how he looked at you.

How the daisies were in bloom and I sneezed you out, how you were a disco bathtub baby, how you rooted and rooted until you found where you fit, how you fit immediately and just right, how these stories are my own water stories, and how they build and grow, and grow tall.

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So, these are my birth stories. And today is my birthday. I’ll celebrate it another day, when the blight is not upon me. Happy Tuesday, readers of poems.

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