June 2004, Becoming Anthology

Enfolding Dear Anna

Not everyone can be a letter.
Some of us must bear
the postage in this world.
And though I suppose
we are all the same to you,
today it is finally my turn
to be pulled from the box.

Prostrate on the desk,
your nib cursives across my surface,
the importance of this address
evident in the length of your pause
after each line,
and the acuteness with which
the dots of your i's
press me into oak.

Your breath close upon me
finalizes the paths
your ink has traveled, and then
in my upper right-hand corner
touches down
thirty-three cents worth of adhesive
softened by your kiss.

Turn me over, lift my flap,
insert your pages into my folds,
sliding to my depths.
I tremor as your tongue
snails across the full length
of my inner lip.

Press me to myself,
and I am sealed.

And now I am the one inserted
into cotton folds of your pocket;
clenched fingers, palm sweat
threatening to blur
your careful inscription.

Exposed, trembling again:
you let go;
cool metal grazes my sides;
and I am falling,
recumbent
on a bed of my brothers.

We all bear postage here,
but I find I bear something more:
watermark of a single tear.