Death: The Birthday Giver
A party,
A package,
A cake with squirming flames,
Even conception and birth itself:
All are birthdays without names.
No, it is more than that,
personal,
And more than once a year;
Subtle yet distinct it is
Like salt within a tear.
An effect of consciousness is a birthday
From where I am the cause;
Yes, I, Death,
The great gasp, the supreme pause;
The irony being that I live,
I breathe,
My heart beats;
The irony being that I give more victories than defeats.
In fact, I give the greatest joy of all:
The Living End,
Like that of a full day;
No mourning is brought to bear
With morning on its way.
Mortality is otherwise – a narrow state of mind;
I am of the psychic breadth
Where life is first designed.
Ultimate risk, devastation, exhaustion . . .
My gift has many guises,
Many variations, details, sizes;
But always the same birthday I give,
Unique to everyone;
Always the same parcel of black
Filled with immortal sun.
Who can tell the moment,
Let alone the date,
When a birthday will occur
Without means to celebrate,
Except to smile inwardly
In knowledge of one’s being
And bid farewell to things of past
Thus in my charge fleeing.
Chambers of the mind,
Potentials only dreamed,
Open wide at oddest times
Never planned or themed.
And therein the true birthday,
When ALL at once takes flight:
The present, past, future,
The Darkness and the Light.
One’s soul suddenly summoned
By mortal call of need
Is the real birthday wish
Demanding life to heed.
And I the satisfaction have of being true to form:
Not a tomb,
Never gloom,
But living being born.
– Mary Jo Magar –