After Jan Senbergs’s News, 1991

 

You still won’t be old 

enough yet to remember this

year’s birthday in hindsight

 

Cannot sit still as you lick 

oil, savour softest bits like

frosting smeared across 

 

your forehead. You tear 

open presents with your teeth

ones we stole just 

 

for you. You’ve grown 

healthy and strong on 

a strict diet of conflict

 

Passed the parcel with 

bones we’ve forgotten 

all the Latin names for  

 

When somebody 

at the party captures 

you on polaroid, I warn

 

them not to shake 

it but hold you still, let

your image chain-react

 

They place the warm 

picture down as a trillion 

tiny pupils swarm into

 

focus. Your eyes

come out red

You ruined it.