only so lucky

her face is red with
atheistic exertion
when she refuses
to celebrate any more
holidays - we are
heathens why should we
deserve happiness -

she has never had
any luck with calendars.
she is not ready for
its onslaught of bright
blank squares, those
telltale lapses when she
fails to fill in the blanks.

and those months, those
uncharted months, when
all she can say to herself is -

love takes thirteen
penstrokes to complete,
thirteen
awkward
accidents
waiting to happen

and all she can wonder is

why can't every month be
October, the month of
revolutions, so that
at the end all I can
celebrate is death.

(resurrections do not happen
until the clock strikes eleven.)