the day after the day after May Day

I didn’t know what to give you—what little bit or bob
could possibly contain my intimate knowledge of you,
would hold your gaze and remind you that I love you each time you held it.
I looked.
And looked and looked and looked. And though it wasn’t what I thought I would find,
I did find something.


They have been with me for as long as I can remember;
there’s a scar on the the left pointer finger knuckle,
and an age spot on the right. Oh, and there is a bump on my right middle
finger—the expressive one—from learning cursive, which unlike algebra
I still find ways to use.

They are yours, always.

Within their grasp you will find any myriad of items:
your dreams
and your prayers, the ones you whisper beside me and think only God can hear.
They carry things, bury things, will hide your scary things
away, keeping them at bay until
the sun shows up, like it always does today.

Happy birthday love.


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