HIS LETTERS.

You have gathered all
His letters together neatly,
Tied them romantically

With ribbon, placed them
In the drawer along with
Your undies and tampons

And washed-through black
Stockings, and left them
There, maybe forgotten.

But not his last one, which
You tore into pieces like
Confetti and cast from the

Window over the city. Pity
It ended so. The fine lines
Written, the words carrying

Their burdens, the sounds
As you read staying there
Inside your head. No doubt,

You’ll take them out and read
Them through (that’s what
Broken hearted and lonely

Lovers do) or so you heard
Somewhere. There again,
Maybe you won’t; maybe

You’ll leave them be to
Gather dust and rot away
Or be found after your death

By your children or grand
Children (if you have any
After the letters and the lost

Love) and read curiously by
Others eyes than yours.
The letters are like coffins

Carrying his dead words.
You closed the drawer on
Them; tried to forget they

Were there; tried to think
Of something else; poured
A drink; had a smoke. You’ll

Forget them, others say. Some
Hope; what a joke. Maybe
You ought to have burnt them

And made crosses on your
Forehead with the ashes.
His letters amongst undies

And tampons are still there,
Tied neatly, romantically,
Brushed off, treated with care.