Dear Angel,
Who Watches Over From The Wire.
Do my prayers reach you ever, swimming through the Earth, around, and under?
You say I have burst through the ice, but I felt you pulling. Hand of a sister on my shoulder, hot, hot. Fingers: intertwined; writing; rolling; opening a door; driving; taking a photo, rolling the film; typing a letter. Calling my name.
All these things I imagine, creation for once bringing what is new— calls of and from bitch soften through consoling glass.
Kant would have said they were wrong, I was right; no one liked Kant very much. I believe in second chances, a third mistake cannot be retouched. I do not have as much patience as the umpire on his hump. The heat burns my eyes more than leather stings. The ball is never as fast as me, or the sorry excuses for soliloquies I say to the sea
Hot melts; hands hold; cold stops; breeze blows. If the sun shines on you and frowns on me, are we at odds? Do I have to live after you? Is there a reprise for the curse put on us by the witch-turned-wife? Does it matter what we say, does it matter how we breathe? Or can our mouths work independently from our mind, and hide the merit of dreams? For at least one day can I get your attention, use the restroom, give in to my desires? Here are four things in my pocket and a crushed-up can. Frozen in time I call your name and do not receive a response for three weeks.
Has rehab saved or stolen? How are your sisters? I will wait for a response for as long as it takes, I do not mind waiting if I know it is not in vain. Are you worth patience? Hands drawn and hands hid; if we’re going to keep playing guessing games I am never going to win. Are you counting the cards? Why are you so far? Do your orange bottles know you’re behind?
I ask you these questions to avoid asking the real one. Are you alive?
Love, Desi
the line about the umpire is soooo good