Beetlebung and Kettlehole--April Poems

The Letter in the Drawer

Late coffee and bagel,
my chair at the desk, and
the approach of catastrophe,
-memorized word by word-
the letter in the drawer
I don’t know how to respond.
There is no metaphor here,
no poetry, for she says
she lied to find comfort
and to make it heroic,
holy, approved. She says
she can’t take it back
since she has woven this sham
with silken threads. She says,
to the sound of her heart drumming,
her father did not die in Iraq
but killed himself there,
and now, she’s a slave,
crying out to me, clinging
to dignity, despite her wounds.
Her pain rises to echo
inside my ruins, and
her secret surrounds me.