She wore a cameo in her hair,
and mourned her unborn baby on a Wednesday.
Knee deep in concrete, she wished she could play the piano.
Wistful of hand prints on the wall; I leveled
Fist full of smeared reflections- in the glass, rainwater
in the coffee, petri-dish turned ashtray... Evolution.
Warbled out another note, singing-
"I saw.
You haven't written anything in a while.
I've been playing Tom,
On the stereo and standing in the closet.
Dreaming.
My hearts afraid of taking
chances. I still remember
Your hands around my waist.
Hope the crops come up...
healthy
this harvest.
Wishing you well.
-L."
Same old song and chicken scratch.
Whispers called her heart a graveyard.
Rumors said, "Cemetery."
She said, "Well,whatever, it's where my lost are dead and buried."
And dashed out in her ribbons, fraying, to the old church yard
for praying psalms over those cold love letters
Inked up in red: "Return to Sender"
