Letter to a Friend, Unsent

I haven't written in a while

because I don't want to talk

about anything

I've been unable to stop

thinking about: the knotted thread

of bad capillaries on my retinae,

money, or that my morning was ruined

by the unusual tightness

of jeans around my thighs,

like the obligations

of having a body

so ill-fitting, oppressively snug

around an obstinate will.

And while I don't want

to be distracted

from this Duchamp thing

I've been working on— I am

itched out of reverie

over and over again

by this feeling I don't deserve

my raptures anymore.

So I'm sorry. I don't want to

bring you down. It's unfair

to have to hear about needles

and envelopes and flies

when you might just have been

enjoying an iced tea outside

and when I would prefer to tell you,

really,

there's a family of pheasant living

in the massive cottonwood

we call the Tree of Life.

The male's red, green, gold plumage

makes him look

like a Christmas present

I would want to give you.

So except “I hope you're well,”

that's all.

bubblefish