Letters From the Living

     Letters from the Living                          

 for RC  

 I.  Mistakenly, I said your name
twice—when it wasn’t you
I wanted to speak of,
dead now years, yes, years,
but there you were
sitting across from me,
wide-eyed, unsure. 

When our gazes met,
we both knew: trick
of the light,
conjuration
out of silence,
faint, sweet smell of lemons.    

II.  I’m writing you letters,
sealing them
with bric-a-brac I
gathered from my yard.  

Words rotting like
tree bark, peeling
and returning, from
where they came. 

III.   I’m haunted by ghosts—
ghosts of the add it up,
ghosts of the cannot
subtract—of the not enough,
so they grab. Ghosts of the too much
so they shut doors, close
the window shades, let nobody
see, let nobody in,
let nobody believe.      

IV.   You, made from red clay
earth woman. You, fastened
at the seams woman. You,
held close to the vest woman. 

You, howls at the moon
woman. You, head off & split
woman. You, not going to
take it anymore woman. You,
out of the living room
and into the streets
woman. You, living, trying
your best at being you. You,
getting stuck in the mud
of it. You, thumbing the silk
of it, pushing off and diving in.   

V.  Next time, I promise
to be on time. Next time,
I promise the scarf
will be green,
deep verdant green. 

*First appeared in Snapdragon: A Journal of Art & Healing (Fall 2021)