Dear Mathilde: April 7, 2020
Updated: Apr 8
Mathilde last night’s rain drips from the rich houses. A shattered
cabbage in the lawn, left for squirrels.
The celery I left like a gift to the gods bends like
extra-terrestrial bones. Untouched, love.
I’ve lived in a desirable town for 30-odd years
but it does not make me desirable. You and the other old ladies
lick their eye teeth and grin when the old
houses fall. The elephants we watched
on TV stood in their long rows, probed the matriarch’s
bleached eye socket. One at a time, at a time.
My dearest confidant, and I want to talk about the weather
and dreams, Mathilde, when no one is watching I want
to be boring. I dreamt myself breaking rules and painting
my nails. This is how I can write now, Mathilde, to you while
others eavesdrop. I'm waiting for some poet to tell me that's obtuse,
but I only bother to listen to you. My March Tarot was a chrysalis
surrounded by swords, I shit you not. Tarot would not repeat
itself so April was two wands bent together, whispering.