For years I tried to be
that kind of relative others
sent letters to, with a paper
outline of a foot tucked into
the last page: size 6 1/2, black

patent leather please. Then
laptop, digital camera, Hills
Bros. coffee, bags of Hershey’s
kisses. The smell of mints
and chocolate, milled soap,

toothpaste. I save these in brown
boxes, in my house overrun with ink
and paper. In the margins, I write
apologies before folding these
into envelopes stamped with wings.


In response to Via Negativa: Ordure.

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