poem: on letters

there is ecstasy

and there



if it was not 2018

i could easily say,

‘he wrote me back’

and you would understand.

i am not

sorry that it is not

a text.

the envelope, the paper, his


(i’m blushing)

are coming apart like a delirium in my


all the cliches, made personal,

so that I am a young maiden

with roses in her


singing for hope and purpose.

i turn off my phone.

i leave lipstick kisses on my palms and take up a pen and say ‘dear’ and it all comes from there.

he wrote



i cannot even breathe

for the ecstasy

of the light

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