A Birthday Present
What
is
this,
behind
this
veil,
is
it
ugly,
is
it
beautiful?
It
is
shimmering,
has
it
breasts,
has
it
edges?
I
am
sure
it
is
unique,
I
am
sure
it
is
what
I
want.
When
I
am
quiet
at
my
cooking
I
feel
it
looking,
I
feel
it
thinking
'Is
this
the
one
I
am
too
appear
for,
Is
this
the
elect
one,
the
one
with
black
eye-pits
and
a
scar?
Measuring
the
flour,
cutting
off
the
surplus,
Adhering
to
rules,
to
rules,
to
rules.
Is
this
the
one
for
the
annunciation?
My
god,
what
a
laugh!'
But
it
shimmers,
it
does
not
stop,
and
I
think
it
wants
me.
I
would
not
mind
if
it
were
bones,
or
a
pearl
button.
I
do
not
want
much
of
a
present,
anyway,
this
year.
After
all
I
am
alive
only
by
accident.
I
would
have
killed
myself
gladly
that
time
any
possible
way.
Now
there
are
these
veils,
shimmering
like
curtains,
The
diaphanous
satins
of
a
January
window
White
as
babies'
bedding
and
glittering
with
dead
breath.
O
ivory!
It
must
be
a
tusk
there,
a
ghost
column.
Can
you
not
see
I
do
not
mind
what
it
is.
Can
you
not
give
it
to
me?
Do
not
be
ashamed—I
do
not
mind
if
it
is
small.
Do
not
be
mean,
I
am
ready
for
enormity.
Let
us
sit
down
to
it,
one
on
either
side,
admiring
the
gleam,
The
glaze,
the
mirrory
variety
of
it.
Let
us
eat
our
last
supper
at
it,
like
a
hospital
plate.
I
know
why
you
will
not
give
it
to
me,
You
are
terrified
The
world
will
go
up
in
a
shriek,
and
your
head
with
it,
Bossed,
brazen,
an
antique
shield,
A
marvel
to
your
great-grandchildren.
Do
not
be
afraid,
it
is
not
so.
I
will
only
take
it
and
go
aside
quietly.
You
will
not
even
hear
me
opening
it,
no
paper
crackle,
No
falling
ribbons,
no
scream
at
the
end.
I
do
not
think
you
credit
me
with
this
discretion.
If
you
only
knew
how
the
veils
were
killing
my
days.
To
you
they
are
only
transparencies,
clear
air.
But
my
god,
the
clouds
are
like
cotton.
Armies
of
them.
They
are
carbon
monoxide.
Sweetly,
sweetly
I
breathe
in,
Filling
my
veins
with
invisibles,
with
the
million
Probable
motes
that
tick
the
years
off
my
life.
You
are
silver-suited
for
the
occasion.
O
adding
machine——-
Is
it
impossible
for
you
to
let
something
go
and
have
it
go
whole?
Must
you
stamp
each
piece
purple,
Must
you
kill
what
you
can?
There
is
one
thing
I
want
today,
and
only
you
can
give
it
to
me.
It
stands
at
my
window,
big
as
the
sky.
It
breathes
from
my
sheets,
the
cold
dead
center
Where
split
lives
congeal
and
stiffen
to
history.
Let
it
not
come
by
the
mail,
finger
by
finger.
Let
it
not
come
by
word
of
mouth,
I
should
be
sixty
By
the
time
the
whole
of
it
was
delivered,
and
to
numb
to
use
it.
Only
let
down
the
veil,
the
veil,
the
veil.
If
it
were
death
I
would
admire
the
deep
gravity
of
it,
its
timeless
eyes.
I
would
know
you
were
serious.
There
would
be
a
nobility
then,
there
would
be
a
birthday.
And
the
knife
not
carve,
but
enter
Pure
and
clean
as
the
cry
of
a
baby,
And
the
universe
slide
from
my
side.
