It's just poetry, it won't bite

Pen Pal, 1974


11.24.12 Posted in today's words by

Maureen Donatelli’s most recent poem to appear here was 13 (August 2012).

Pen Pal, 1974
By Maureen Donatelli

Here, the sun has just reached
the rim, has found a ripped seam
in the cloud, changing remnant snow
from blue to gold.

There, you may have just fallen into sleep. Maybe the moon
is a crescent or full or a transit of darkness.

Maybe stars arch from horizon to horizon
of pale plain freeing the day’s gathered heat. Maybe
outside your door the world is one long and thirsty sigh.

With the receipt they sent for Mom’s cheque
covering “only 10 cents a day,” came a creased polaroid.
You stand rigid in a red plaid skirt and white blouse,
no shoes, thin arms, thin legs, all belly.
I angle the picture from side to side
trying to tease your eyes out of the shadow
carved by glaring light.

You hold me delicately against your chest,
the polaroid we sent
of me, unsmiling, framed between green grass,
cement shops, the bright blue hydrangeas, my cheeks
always too red and fat.

My tight brown curls.
Your tight black curls.
Your smile is its own bright yellow sun.

My spoon drips sweet cold milk
sugary pink and purple circles float in my bowl!

Suddenly my mouth has filled with dirt.



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