THREE DEAD LETTERS

 
1. Orphan

In mine, the darkest heart of hearts, you’re the blind orphan hawking pencils by the curb. But it’s mambo time. Every strange body rubbing against mine leaves me reeking of a new perfume. Hubba. Hubba. And look at you in your sequins; your new sweetheart with his alligator tie, his blue suede, wolf’s hide shoes. I mambo for the door. On the street, I see the orphan. Circling the block, a shiny Yellow Cab. The cabby guns it, adjusts the woodblocks under his feet and the phone books under his ass. I’m that cabby. All the better for asking an orphan to dance. I get out of the car. I reach for you. Give me a pencil. Oh, what beautiful blue rags you’re wearing.


2. Tree

If I look at this tree for more than a moment, I will want to hang myself. Why do they treat me this way? That flower in the corner, the dog’s fur, your face? I climb your waist. When I reach your tiny neck, I lose my footing. I fall. I want to chop you down. Your trembling arms. Your buttressed feet. Say something. Look at me.


 3. Dog

Like a dog, I pull you through the snow and frozen tundra. While you rest, I build a fire. You bed down next to the fire to write letters to your man who lounges in Miami—who drinks small glasses of white zinfandel; I burrow into the snow. All night I chew on ice. In the morning, one leg hiked, I write you sonnets. While you sleep, the falling snow erases them.