He’s had one too many cups of
coffee, black, and reads my poem
with a vibration in his hand.
He wants more. To know how
a woman can conceive of her
chest as an air-filled cavity,
her breasts balloons
that will carry her into published pages
and her words into the mouths
of children not yet born.
He searches his books, papers,
telephones on the land-line
to an editor he knew in the mid-west
once in the 1970s. Where else would women
have toes that point skyward
and painted in glitter?
He finds my address, an old one,
and sends letters filled with verbs
and feathers. The man who receives them
wonders who this poet is, obsessed with the smell
of poltergeists, who omits a return address.
Photo By: Sherman Yang