The canary yellow envelope at mail call aroused the other seminarians,
“What’s the occasion?”
“Ya got me,” I lied and peeked in at two Mallards landing
on a Blessed Virgin blue
pond with a largemouth bass
leaping to greet them
under the swirling script
in the sky—
Happy Birthday
To A Wonderful Son—
the only reminder that
tomorrow, just another
day in the sem,
was my birthday,
the seventh since any celebration with Mom and Sarah, my sister, the seventh away from Winthrop Street in Detroit, half a continent west, my third birthday
with my new family
the Congregation of the Holy Ghost whom I adopted with vows of
poverty, chastity, obedience
a family but
no gifts, not even a handkerchief, no three-layer cake
lathered with angel-white icing,
lipstick-red roses,
first slice for the birthday boy,
no candles, family, friends to sing Happy Birthday to You