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# Poem for My 39th Birthday
- URL: https://hyperallergic.com/poem-for-my-39th-birthday-joanna-fuhrman/
- Published: 2012-10-13T01:39:19.000Z
- Updated: 2025-11-24T16:36:12.000Z
- Description: Joe Pan is Hyperallergic's new poetry editor and he has selected a poem by Joanna Fuhrman for his editorial debut.
- Author: Joanna Fuhrman
- Tags: Poetry, Hyperallergic Poetry, Joe Pan, #wp, #wp-post, #image-position-hidden, #Import 2025-11-24 06:51 (2012, 2013, part 1)

*Editor’s Note: We want to introduce our new poetry editor* [*Joe Pan*](http://joepan.org/?ref=hyperallergic.com)*, who will select a poem to feature once a month on Hyperallergic. Pan grew up along the Space Coast of Florida, attended the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, and is the founder of Brooklyn Arts Press, an independent publishing house. His debut book of poetry,* [Autobiomythography & Gallery](http://www.amazon.com/Autobiomythography-Gallery-Joe-Millar/dp/0978825705?ref=hyperallergic.com)*, was named Best First Book of the Year by* Coldfront Magazine*. His work has appeared in such places as* Art World*, Boston Review,* Cimarron Review*,* Denver Quarterly*,* Epiphany*,* Glimmer Train*, Hyperallergic, and* The New York Times*. He lives in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.*

For his inaugural selection, he has picked a poem by Joanna Fuhrman.

\* \* \*

![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/51/f8/51f871d8-b6be-4a73-b958-0ca4fff0110a/content/images/hyperallergic-newspack-s3-amazonaws-com/uploads/2012/10/4568882887_3947d86300_z.jpg)

Conor Cotter, “Giant Rabbit on Hackney Road by ROA” (2010) (via flickr.com/41845311@N06)

I am not brave, despite  
being poor  
 and Miley Cyrus does not  
 give me advice  
on whining techniques or  
 glitter *glamouresque*  
 eye shadow use,  
despite my Twitter pleadings  
 with her.

To be honest, complaining  
comes naturally to me,

like reindeer ornaments  
come naturally  
 to aqua tinsel trees.

I am not kidding you  
 when I marvel  
at the appeal of sleep,

how I never grow tired of it,  
despite so many hours lost  
 under its spell.

What I love most is to feel  
all the pillows  
congregating under me,

from both sides of the bed

 and to feel the sun, not too  
 warm on one side of my face,

when I fall asleep on the ocean-  
blue picnic blanket, with my wallet  
bundled safely under my ribs.

Unfortunately, most days, I am a little  
too awake

to be completely myself.

The city is an obese rabbit  
that lives in my chest,

slurping my veins with its mile-long tongue,  
chewing my heart

 with its saw-toothed  
 robot brain tumor,

 and the laundry machine is,

um, you know,  
 a laundry machine.

It’s always quacking at me  
*quack quack quack quack*

until I  
 whack it  
 in the mouth

with quarters.