Love Letter Where I Am Someone Else
Dear Exterior, when I stumbled through your corn husks and hay bars
and the whine of your caesarean guitars,
I rendered the past a senseless tense. Even the border guards blinked as sparse
parts for the incinerator rumbled past. Fall arrived and arrived
and departed. The leaves shadowed and scratched. I listened. To the guard’s
thin whistle as he snapped the heads of sweet alyssum for his sleeping wife. She lived.
A quiet life. Outside, everyone was. Smoking. Three inches
taller. The religious significance almost laryngitic. When I arrived, almost
undressed was still best. Thank you, substance. Thank you,
tinder. I spent a long time. Forgetting. Today, I refuse to speak
of her beauty, her bread. The children were never immortal,
only less sad. A napkin marked with dried blood was an angel.
Still, my Dresden is nothing like her Dresden.