Billy Collins’ poem, “Anniversary,”
tells of a baby being born on the day
someone dies such that the baby’s birthday
is always a commemoration of the dead
person’s life. Who died on my birthday,
June 7, 1950? I’m gonna crank up the
Google machine right now and check that out.
The only famous person I can find who died
on my birthday is Charles S. Howard, the millionaire
owner of the famous racehorse, Seabiscuit.
Oh for god’s sake! How humiliating.
Who has heard of Charles S. Howard?
He’s not famous, his horse is. Couldn’t have
some internationally known novelist or poet
have died on my birthday? A Nobel Laureate,
or even a famous acrobat or lion tamer, or possibly
an all-around world champion bronco rider?
What about a guy who, single handedly, pulled
twenty fellow marines out of quicksand in Korea
after one of his hands had been blown off
by a grenade so that he had, quite literally,
saved them single handedly? But no, the guy
with whom I celebrate every birthday never
did anything but own a horse.
Who the hell was Charles S. Howard anyway? I bet
he’d never ridden a horse. I bet he spent his time
drinking mint julips, smoking stinky cigars, and
reading the newspaper at his exclusive men’s club
while he sat in a red leather chair that made fart
noises every time he changed position.
Then again, who am I to whine that no one famous
died on my birthday? What will the person born
on my death day think about me?
Oh great, on the day I was born some obscure,
unknown, minor poet, not even a footnote
on Duotrope, some verbigerator obsessed with
nuns and death who, as an atheist, claimed
he had no soul and whose soul, therefore,
had nowhere to go, died on the day I was born.
Not only didn’t he own a famous racehorse,
he didn’t even possess a famous moose,
or turtle, or anteater.
I want to apologize now, before my demise,
to the poor bloke or lass who draws my death
to commemorate on his or her birthday.
I’m sorry. Make a wish. Blow out the candles.
Live a good and decent life.
French For Reading
It was the requirement I most feared. We
had to pass a language competency exam
to progress into the Ph.D. program.
I chose French even though my past romance
with that language had been mostly unrequited.
I managed to squeeze out a B in a brutal summer
course at the University of Denver so I could graduate
and then, at Christmas, 1976, I was beset with lingo
Franko again. This time it was French For Reading.
I found myself fifty-four chapters behind as we
entered Christmas break. Fifty-four chapters!
I also had to study for an exam in Heidegger’s
philosophy which didn’t improve my Sein or Zeit.
If, as Marty proclaimed, death is our ownmost
possibility, I hoped it would arrive soon.
Fifty-four chapters behind!
How to catch up? I selected the Chatham College library
because it was close to home and I’d never seen any
of those rich girls congregating around the stacks.
I arose every morning at seven, ate a quick breakfast,
packed a sandwich and a thermos of hot tea and
drove to the library where I parlez voused Frances
and read Being and Time for eight hours a day,
every day, during that precious Christmas break.
My sweet wife was justly irritée, mais que
pourrais-je faire? She wasn’t anywhere near
as irritée as the security guard at Chatham whom
I called from the empty library one evening
after I’d lost myself in the ecstasy of always
already being Da in the world and hadn’t noticed
the library going dark. I tried the main door,
but it was chain-locked from the front. The frown
of the buxom security guard, the creek of her leather
belt, and the roll of her eyes conveyed that
she was dealing with someone who had fallen
fifty-four chapters behind in his French class.
Freed from the tomb of tomes I passed my
French comps and my Heidegger exam and
reveled for the next nine years in the être
et le néant of my Ph.D. program.
Something in Us Loves a Good Storm
We turned onto Thumb Lake Road twenty-five years ago
in a blinding blizzard, a horizontal havoc of snow blowing
across our windshield. The windshield wipers couldn’t
keep up with that northern Michigan blizzard.
To calm nerves and create distraction, Judy read
Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone aloud
to our sixteen-year-old son Ariel, and to me. Just
as she got to the part where there’s an ominous knock
on the door during a ferocious storm where Harry
has been sequestered by the evil Dursleys, just at
that terrifying knock, our van went completely dark—
a starless, moonless, midnight encased our Honda.
Was Voldemort after us as well as Harry and Hagrid?
No—our harrowing experience was caused by hitting
a snowdrift that completely covered or van. This is it,
I thought. We’ll be stuck here until they thaw out our
frozen corpses in the spring. I envisioned walking for miles
in below zero temperatures to find a kind farmer who would
let me use his phone to call for help. But then, as if Harry
had cast a Dissendium Spell, our conventional, non-four
wheel drive, gray, gasoline powered chariot carried us
through the storm and into Boyne City where we found
a restaurant, ordered a hot dinner, and renewed our wish
to find a place to live amid this arresting arctic beauty.
When our waitress, a young lady a little older than Ari,
asked for our drink orders, Ari ordered a coke and Judy
said she’d like a virgin bloody Mary. And when this
sweet maiden, festooned in the nascent bloom of femineity,
asked me what I wanted, I said I wanted a virgin. Our
waitress blushed, Judy frowned, and Ariel turned
the color of mortification. Having rescued my family
from the frozen fright of Northern Michigan and
having done my paternal duty of causing our son
to wonder what horrible curse Voldemort had
cast that made me become his father. I reclined
in my chair, smiled, and enjoyed the storm.
The first myth was that we’d all
Mom and Dad everlasting,
But the grim-faced priests put that to rest
because, as they said,
one day we’d all be dead.
The next myth was that, as sure it was
we’d die, we’d all rise again,
ascend into the sky.
There we’d find our family and friends,
all would be well unless, of course,
we fell to hell,
Then we’d burn without respite in the fiery pit.
The nuns told us to pass our fingers
over a lit match, jut to get a faint
Feel for the anguish that could await.
We’d better not lust, better not flout,
you know what that myth was all about.
And finally, her body writhing under mine,
her head later in the curl of my arm,
I knew forever was a dream I no longer desired.
I found eternity in a moment, a spark
of infinity in her perfumed hair.
No more myths, my dear,
Just you and me, now and here.
My friend, Gus, carried the book Failing Up
around like it was the bible
which, in a way, it was for him.
Gus failed up like our cats threw up:
they couldn’t learn not to lick
wads of fur off their soft bodies,
so they puked—often and arrogantly.
Gus squeaked by with an odd job here,
an even odder job there. Still,
he attracted a lovely woman who spent
hours toning her body at the gym—
the gym where Gus would do a few push-ups,
some casual sit-ups, maybe a knee bend
before retiring to the snack bar
for a veggie burger and power shake.
No one was allowed to attend the wedding ceremony.
Gus said it was too sacred to pollute with witnesses,
although their affenpinscher, Acne, stood up for them
(when offered a biscuit), and a justice
of the so-called peace presided. I think a northern pine
was present. At their wedding reception
people bet on how long their marriage would last.
Immediately after the ceremony, Gus’s wife began
to hound him with unreasonable demands:
“Get a job, you blowhard!” she bellowed. “Pay the bills!”
“Pick up your underwear!” That sort of thing.
It lasted one day longer than the prenup: ten terror-filled
years of drugs and booze and abuse on both sides.
There was, of course, a child who asked for none of it,
but got it all.
Charlie Brice is the winner of the 2020 Field Guide Magazine Poetry Contest and is the author of Flashcuts Out of Chaos (2016), Mnemosyne’s Hand (2018), An Accident of Blood (2019), and The Broad Grin of Eternity (forthcoming), all from WordTech Editions. His poetry has been nominated for the Best of Net Anthology and three times for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in The Atlanta Review, Chiron Review, Pangolin Review, The Sunlight Press, Sparks of Calliope, and elsewhere.