Aneek Chatterjee writes

Birthday

Don’t tag me to white 

and red balloons

Pink and violet flowers

golden ribbons

Don’t tag me to wild music

I can’t dance

I’m unable to move my feet

and graze the floor

My autobiography is read

everyday inside the refrigerator,

along with dry vegetables,

pancakes 

Open the door, light flashes out

occasionally; but dark and cold.

The warmth outside fails 

to  reach its pages 

Tag me to your woes,

wrinkles on forehead,

injured legs and faded memory

I can dance with. 

Autobiography does not

record my birthday 

Birthday Girl -- March Locust