Birthday Paradox

(fold here)

He tells her he’s drawing up
a poem about her without letting
slip that it is, indeed, about her. Rather,
about a she, a proper she, resembling
her. He approaches, while she sits
in her folding chair, reading: Ah, God,
the way your little finger moved, and
asks for her to let slip the elastic
band of her panties, revealing
a scar hidden just below her waist
line. Along these lines, the poem
about she, and her, begins; along a
perforated line, working title: Reductio
ad absurdum:

“My little finger moved along
the broken line, marked-out on the
skin just below her waistline. An incision,
from an appendectomy, when she
was a child. My little finger moved
along the scar, listening: the dialectic,
like Morse code. I choose, to fold,
not tear. I draw an arrow with
permanent ink, and fold:
I fold
my wife in half by the waistline.
She’s excited, so, she laughs, like
keys, because she doesn’t mind,
for I was writing a poem about my
wife, while now facing the back of
her lower-half. I run my little finger
along the crease behind her knees,
along the line at the bottom of
her buttocks, as well as the
cleft. A symbol, Aries, upside-
down. I trace the outline of a
butterfly, a Painted Lady, perched
just above the crest. The skin, like
Braille, spelling out her name:
K-a-s-s-i-a, in parenthesis. I draw
a perforated line just above the
crest, and an arrow, and fold:
I fold
my wife in half, once again. I notice
beads of sweat, like a necklace of
ellipses, running along the furrow
of her back; the margin, like a bracket,
closing-off the undefined; no
secrets. A laugh; quieted, but unblocked.
The baby-like hairs along the hair
line at the bottom of her neck. Too
half-grown to fly away. I listen to
their gossip, and choose to fold, and
not tear. I draw a perforated line
along the margin of her back; another
arrow, and fold:
I fold
my wife in half, once again. Now,
her face to my face; drawn to her
eyes. Her eyes, like ribbons, a
Lemniscate in bold typeface—
unbounded. I erase lines of
tears with both of my thumbs,
outlining the shapes of two
parentheses along the crown
of her cheek bones, forming an
emoticon of asylum. I trace
the scar along her right eyelid,
like a hem; an accident when
she was a child. A tear line.
I once again choose to fold
instead. I want inside, though
I cannot. Therefore, I draw another
arrow, and fold along the tear
line of her eyelid:
I fold
my wife once again, and continue to
fold her, in halves, like pleats, until
she fits within the borders of my palm,
like a parenthesis within another
set. An arrow at its center, along an
unbroken union line. I close my palm
and let nothing else slip.”

While she sits in her folding chair,
he unfolds his palm, revealing a page
folded many times over. A poem to
her, written for her. She laughs, and
places Ah, God, the way your little
finger moved, off to the side. A gift,
for her birthday. She unfolds, and
reads.

After serving four years in the U.S. Navy, Michael J. Pagan returned home to Florida to pursue a B.A. in English at Florida Atlantic University. He is currently an M.F.A. student-in-progress (Poetry) at Florida Atlantic University where he is also one of the poetry editors for its literary Magazine, Coastlines. He has published two works: “Palmistry” and “Writing Surfaces,” both in the 2009 edition of Coastlines. He also has an interview with acclaimed poet/novelist/essayist/translator Forrest Gander being published in the 2010 edition of Coastlines.