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Nov 142012
 

by Marina Rubin

 

the day the poet was born

her mother walked into the living room,

pointed to her stomach and said “Dodik, its time,”

to which the poet’s father, slumped over on the sofa,

replied “Sofiya, have you gone mad, I am watching

the soccer championship of the world”

 

the poet had been a difficult fetus

lying with her legs facing the exit instead of her head,

Dr. Muza Bazilevich, whose name meant inspiration,

tried to turn the poet around, the poet flipped over, 

a body brace that looked like a parachute vest

was placed over the shoulders of the mother

with little wooden planks around the belly

that squeezed the poet’s head

and kept her from moving around 

 

the poet was delivered on time,

without stamps or footnotes attached,

they had put down her name as Marina,

the hospital administrator suggested she write

a different date of birth – same as the brother of the poet

born 6 years earlier and 4 days later, she winked

“its nice to have 2 children with same birthday”

 

the night they brought the poet home,

the poet’s brother celebrated his birthday,

30 neighborhood boys in pointy hats

ran through the house, raising hell

and the poet lay in her crib listening

to the excited screams and giggles of boys,

wondering if she would grow up to be

something of a Dorothy Parker