^{For Shira Shaiman, 1971–2014}

It’s easy to forget birth and death
are partners, hovering in a corner
at an otherwise pleasant party.
Right after the arrival of her second
child, the doctor said, It’s
back: the cancer. My friend writes

the update now, subject heading
something with the word “joy.”
The message lists the baby’s weight,
his height, his favorite song—facts strung
along like blue and white pennants.
She tells us, too, that doctors agree:

no more options exist. I read the mass
email in my office, desk lumped
with half-assed student essays, bowl
of Dum Dums, quorum of hand sanitizers.
What is it that I had been worrying about?
We treat these bodies like rented

ponies. Wash them for the big events,
tie pink ribbons in manes,
then load them down again, ignore
them until everything slows to a stop
in a circle of circles. My friend
continues with what she wishes for,

wishing as if such a thing were possible,
as if a birthday cake were being carried
from the kitchen, the rest of us searching
for the light switch and the right pitch.
She leans in, candles casting a yellow
circle onto her face. It’s peaceful, she says.

In my twenties, I worried about what I wanted
to be. Now I know. I want to be old.