Postcard

chad-valley-postcard-writing
I write her a postcard to tell her
how I am. Not a real postcard–
the back of a coffee-ringed photo
of the pair of us, the same lemon dresses,
snuffling ice cream cones on the wall
in the wild chill of Devon.

In the mornings the bullish sun
heaves through everything, shatters
the greasy mirror, sour laundry,
with daylight I do not ask for.
A bottle of stolen make-up
she’d left dribbing on the sink,
her bracelets I thumb like rosary.

A towel sags on the doorframe
and I suck my pen trying to think.
Here, the windows have been locked
since she swung them out,
chain-smoking into the breeze.
A ribbon of chemical blues.
I write my first sentence,
I’m doing fine
and do not mention
her bedroom walls crumbling around me,
my suddenly oversized jeans
or the housefly buzzing, hysterical,
butting its skull to get out.

Advertisements

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s