The War Against Birthdays

The universe demotes me, 
yet again, to coin-operated laundry, 
and each night, when everyone 
is sleeping, our tongues all migrate
one mouth to the left. The tongue 
in your mouth, now, is not 
the one you started out with. Your tongue
is half a world away. None of my dead, either,
have ever been interested 
in coming back. Plastic cups
drift into my yard
from the fraternity house across the street. 
Brothers, I’ve been looking
for someone to hand my body
over to, so that the dirt
will not page through it. Rib bones 
like lines, clouds like accordions, 
and soon enough the rain 
dropping like choir members. What can I say? 
What could be said. The church 
was always so hot. Tongue
come back, come back
for a little bit longer. I’ve only got 
the one death to my name, one death
and I’m not going to ruin it.