The Letter

For fear of feeling
sentimental, I burnt the letter
before the undressing.
It was not made for splitting:
seams holding body,
the vessel holding.

Her heart
was a rose or the thorns,
or maybe the blood
dripping like a wax seal
onto the page:

the inked initials phantoms,
two corners bent,
the fold already half undone
as if catching breath.

I did not wish to be opened:
words still have eyes,
and we still eyes
to receive them.

In leaving, you could not leave;
you could not bury ashes
and become them–to reveal them,
and so reveal me.

Home is now a phoenix
reborn only in embers:
what is uncovered
is only burnt again.

Leave a Reply

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

You are commenting using your 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 )

Google+ photo

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

Connecting to %s