Dear L.

The pool water in the sunlight, less transparent,
opens like a cracked door back
to the few lulls in our last conversation.
Something you wanted to say, but couldn’t?

          *

Like you, I hang my glasses
from the V in my shirt.
The head should be free. I read this
a long time ago. The crown
is the best place, when its time,
for the spirit to escape.

          *

When I heard your sandaled feet
moving along the museum’s white
marbled floor, I recalled the Purgatorial
stairs—“. . .polished to such a glass
that even as I am
I saw me there.”

          *

But now, I’m straining to see
why you stood by, not a word
as your son flicked bits of candied fish
to the backs of strangers. Why
you didn’t notice his absence followed
by water bottles rolling down the aisle
of the store, kewpie kitch, and anime heroes
tumbling off the register.

          *

I have a metal box,
a single row of watercolors
and a thin brush. I draw out each
in strands along the ridges
of dry driftwood, intending for anger
to take the hint—move lightly along.

          *

You have strong arms.
I’ve seen you wrestle out of your garden
more rocks and stubborn roots
than any I could manage alone.
I understand that my correcting him
might have embarrassed you. I remember that
you once found no reason to disguise the art
of flicking cigarette butts at the Stop Signs.

          *

In another valley, three mirrors set apart
reflect something on the verge of being
fully fledged and equally bright.

The earth is always quaking, day and night.

“All wills away.” Of course, the astronomers say,
one must read that passage whichever way they will.


Yours,
J.