Her Birthday  

 

By my Love for You,

 

I am.

 

Overwhelmed.

 

I.                 Apology  ...

My Wife:

Sometimes I watch you from behind:

your shoulders, avian, aflutter.

Your ruby hands;

the feet that carry you to me

and then away.

I know I wrong You.

Your eyes black pools; your skin eruptions of what is

and could have been.

I vow to make you happy, but

my Hunchbacked Self

just tolls the bells

and guards you from afar.

II.               ... And Thanks

In the wasteland that is Me

You flower.

Your eyes black petals strewn

across the tumbling masonry.

Your stem resists my winds.

Your roots, deep in my soil,

toil in murk to feed both you and me,

to nurture Us.

And every day a spring,

and every morn a sunshine:

you’re in my garden,

you blossom day and night.

Your sculpted daint feels

in my hands like oneness.

III.              In Toronto

So much is left unsaid between us.

Your crests of silence

fallen on my shores of pain.

IV.             Dedication (9th Edition of “Malignant Self-love”)

My Wife:

You are in every carefully measured space,

In every broken word

That we had mended with

The healing hyphens of our together-

-ness.

This book, the memory of us,

A record of survival

Against all odds.

Malignant Self- gives way to love, two points, we are:

Revisited.

V.               Happy 2014 (dedication on the book “Macedonian Woodcarving”)

Carved in the wood of our togetherness, entwined,

the chiseled hurt of us:

sprawled in your arms, my wounds

and your iconic smile,

Madonna of leaves and angels.

Only one unicorn we are,

sheltered behind the royal doors

to our love. And you?

My own Iconostasis.

VI.             Dedication (10th Edition of “Malignant Self-love”)

In the tenth edition of our lives, we:

muscles aching,

voices raised,

backs bent upon

the pain of editing the past.

You in my studio, I in your night,

pecking at keyboards,

nearsighted, glazed.

And outside? Rain chases Sun

and cats among narcissi

and new life sprouts and old.

We leave behind only these sheaves

of paper children,

off spring.

VII.            Remember Me

Very often, I cannot remember me.

 

But I remember that you make me happy.

 

You make me happy when:

 

We watch a film together

 

We eat your delicious food

 

We talk (and talk and talk)

 

You smile with enormous cheeks

 

I hold your delicate bird-like hand in mine

 

You run and stumble on the way to our bed

 

You talk to and agree with or argue with yourself

 

You make our apartment a home with gentle touch and souvenirs

 

You return at night, flustered, excited, loving

 

You listen to the birds, feed all the cats, talk to the dogs (they listen)

 

You make me very happy Lidija.

 

And this is why I am not back - because I never left.

 

In search for Sam, I am moving towards him - not away from you.

 

And in the dim, dreamlike existence that I lead,

 

in the turbulent whirlpool that I am,

 

a vortex and an apparition,

 

a sepia shadow of myself,

 

pure dust - from this nothingness,

 

for lack of another, better word, I feel.

 

I call it love. My love for you.

 

Having forgotten all else - even us - I remember only you,

 

and survive from one visit of yours to another,

 

knocking on echoed doors behind which I am not,

 

entombed,

 

scribbling furiously in a journal,

 

a diary that will never be written.

 

Your Sam

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