The Letter

Beloved, men in thick green coats came crunching

through the snow, the insignia on their shoulders

of uncertain origin, a country I could not be sure of,

a salute so terrifying I heard myself lying to avoid

arrest, and was arrested along with Jocko, whose tear

had snapped off, a tiny icicle he put in his mouth.

We were taken to the ice prison, a palace encrusted

with hoarfrost, its dome lit from within, Jocko admired

the wiring, he kicked the walls to test the strength

of his new boots. A television stood in a block of ice,

its blue image still moving like a liquid center.

You asked for my innermost thoughts. I wonder will I

ever see a grape again? When I think of the vineyard

where we met in October—when you dropped a cluster

custom insisted you be kissed by a stranger—how after

the harvest we plunged into a stream so icy our palms

turned pink. It seemed our future was sealed. Everyone

said so. It is quiet here. Not closing our ranks

weakens us hugely. The snowflakes fall in a featureless

bath. I am the stranger who kissed you. On sunny days

each tree is a glittering chandelier. The power of

mindless beauty! Jocko told a joke and has been dead

since May. A bullethole in his forehead the officers

call a third eye. For a month I milked a barnful of

cows. It is a lot like cleansing a chandelier. Wipe

and polish, wipe and polish, round and round you go.

I have lost my spectacles. Is the book I was reading

still open by the side of our bed? Treat it as a bookmark

saving my place in our story.

(here the letter breaks off)

Source: Post Meridian (Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2000)