WillThree letters I've been writing. One within a love, two on thin wooden plaques, the last, intercepted from her father, crossing off his signature, underlining mine. ![]() The plaques I wrap and seal and send while burning the others in vellum. ![]() "Then don't ask forgiveness for half-imagined abuse," she mutters, reaching for the keys. Insisting her father never beat her. Belittled her, here and there, when he'd been drinking. ![]() Said she'd never be a leader. Maybe he was right. She isn't big on fighting. Tried killing herself when her boyfriend left to find the good life. I became the consolation. ![]() I swear I hardly hit her. Maybe punched her arms, or pulled her soft blond hair ![]() —its smell like honeysuckle, warm running water, her hair up under it, reaching with her neck, flicking drops on her shoulders, ![]() she'd lean her towel-turbaned head on my chest and fall asleep on my lap. Even with the shades drawn I could tell it was snowing: paisley white and paisley gray. ![]() She liked to pose in freshly drawn hieroglyphs, a shadow caught mid flight, love that mattered less each day, and spring that left me seeking assurance: ![]() Absence from the litany she enacts for new friends. My name unspoken, particulars forgotten. No restraining order, no growing fond, no fiery sword in her smoking mouth. |
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