Epistolary Poetry: To Everything In Between | Return to Sender: Letters to the World

To Windsor Lake
You don’t fit in,
in the woods, he said,
perched on a tree stump.
I laughed as he went on,
With your designer glasses and
high heels.
Later on, we found wild
strawberries and raspberries,
fruits of the forest.
I bent to pluck them
from their tiny branches
and my sunglasses
fell from my head,
landing in the patch
of wild berries,
the Gucci logo
glinting in the sunlight.

To my dress
I like the way
the fabric swishes
when I walk
and the way it drapes
perfectly over my breasts
hanging loosely on my frame
the way the haze hangs over
city after it rains.
To a cold bath
There is no painted
over window
in this bathroom.
The water doesn’t
change from hot
to cold without warning
while I shower.
You aren’t as big
as the old one,
you have no seat in the back,
I fill you with cool
water
and sink in,
feeling goose bumps wash
over me,
because you are private.
You’re too small for two,
you’re only mine.

To my pen
The ink flows
from the tip
with the grace
of a paper airplane
floating down from
an open window.
My letters and words
may be imperfect
but the tip
acquiesces to the
messy curves
and crooked lines.
A high school English teacher
once told me
that my handwriting was
a sign of intelligence,
I was always trying to
capture things
as quickly as possible.
But I’m really just trying
to write things down
before I forget them.
To my eyes
Stay open,
slumber is not too far
just wait for the rest of me,
wait until I put this pen down,
and slip under
this unfamiliar duvet,
wait until I exchange
I love yous
and have taken deep breaths
of the evening air
seeping through the window,
wait until I’ve prepared,
until I am ready to give myself to sleep,
until I let go,
then close,
so I can go to places,
I’ll never know.

To rainstorms
The smell of wet pavement
during an afternoon shower
never changes.
It’s like the smell of
freshly paved roads
with the sun beating
down on them.
The cool rain
and the heat of tar
meet on the solid
yellow lines
and exchange
pleasantries
between the
buildings of the city,
on roads,
alleyways,
and bridges

To Loneliness
I kept pressing the
glowing green seven button,
repeatedly listening to
the hollow feminine
voice monotonously reply
over and over
there are no new messages
in your mailbox,
there are no new messages
in your mailbox,
with the receiver of the phone,
pressed tightly up against
my ear.
I don’t know why
I kept pressing that button.
I was only checking
my messages out of habit.
I wasn’t actually
expecting any.
I finally hung up
the phone,
silencing the ominous,
insincere voice on the
other end. I lay in my
bed with my pink down
comforter pulled
up to my chin.
I looked at my small,
nearly empty room,
listening to the silence,
and then quickly
turned off the light.

To nostalgia
Certain songs, the smell of dried roses, icy sidewalks, the first snowfall, woolen mittens,
any poem by Hughes, the coffee shop downstairs, egg and cheese croissants, typewriters,
fine tipped pens, the smell of old books, anything made in China, wellies, the way the sun shines on the
mountains, early morning silence….
bring
you
to
the
front
of
my
mind.
(It’s as if I can’t breathe without you invading my lungs and traveling with the oxygen
to my brain and heart.)
You cause that familiar pain, it’s not physical except for the
dropping
feeling
in
my
stomach
and
the
shortness
of
my
breath.
(It’s the way I feel when I hit the first big drop on a rollercoaster but without the adrenaline
high that follows.)
Yet it hurts
in a way
that makes
me feel weak
when moments
ago, I was inhaling
the brisk fall air,
the scent of dried
maple and oak leaves
and now I am trying to exhale you from my
lungs
blood
and heart.