you always told me that you hated Wednesdays,
that you were born on a Wednesday.
i was born on a Tuesday,
2:33am.
whereas you were born in the rays
and beaming of the West Coast,
i emerged here, a child of aluminum
smokestacks
and premature love
that only the Midwest can harbor so well
in all fairness i probably should have
been born on a Wednesday:
that Thanksgiving my mother whined
as my father and his uncles enjoyed
a beer in the name of his son-to-be,
my mother there, aching, hot and straining
to push me out
Wednesdays always had a strain on me:
P.E. at 8 in the morning,
that day i hit my teacher's car,
that terrible stomach flu the day of dress rehearsal
i was born on the cusp of winter:
in Adrian the snow is not white
but gray
and laced with pebbles,
bricks,
and dead autumn grass
i remember that it was the cusp of winter
when i fell in love with you:
it was before it got too cold to sleep naked
and we would roll in your big bed
making ourselves sweat
because you always had the heat on too high
if there is a such thing as
a good Wednesday
that one
and the one on which you were born
are
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