thirty ONE none

by Steven J. Serafiani

she was 25,
labor room
my mother
freckled- cursed in contractions:

was pushed out
  a corded orwellian
and I’m begging
the gods for more time.      split in

half, the logger dripped
in lager for his thirty first.       just one.

hard to love gone bitter as
I circle the sun; mother gives
wishes and in fashion, quip a

thanks. she held me once, fresh and
sprinkled.wonder what she truly
thinks of me. I’m sorry, I used to