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  • Olivia E. Olson

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.

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