The Letter

One day she arrivedLike a scab dragged across a balladOf iodine,A sequin of starsStitched to a dormant volcano’s lapel,And as if by sleight of handOr twist of fateCame to smolderIn my mailbox, that manmade mistressOf the godsAnd the Postal Service.

My surprise was pulmonary,Elemental,Like a lava saxophoneBreathing fireAnd an archipelagoOf liquid heatGiving birth to jazz.

What Circe could have saved meFrom an epistolary demise?What mast could bind me,What beeswax blind me?

None. Envelopes seduceLike pastry-stuffed ovensSuffusing stagnant airWith trinkets of butter and chocolate.And so I stood by the boiling pot,By the eager salt,And read.And read again.

The chaste mind is naïve.JerusalemIs a postcardOf chastened ruinsAnd toy gunsAnd faithIn lethal salvation.But Granada,O Granada, Your calligraphySimmers in sunshineLike the fat ofA sacrificial lamb:

No, no poet could appease you.All those stanzas died in vain,And now on my kitchen tableI sort bills and couponsAs though good creditCould make upFor a mystic loveThat left no forwarding address.