The Birthdays of the Dead

We celebrate the birthdays of the dead,
Remember cake and ice cream, and the gifts
We offered in the years before those rifts
That separated us. The years ahead
Are empty. We remember what we said,
Telling ourselves sweet lies. The spirit lifts,
We take to telling sad stories in shifts —
My turn, come midnight, fills my heart with dread.

I don't want to recall the lives, the deaths,
The time we’ve spent, together and alone,
Pretending time always stands still. We’re prone,
In this harsh mood, to lean on shibboleths
And maunder on about our friends’ last breaths,
But it’s a birthday! Dance on a gravestone.