Dear Rebecca

 

 

It’s noon right now, and clouds press on the oaks lining my field. My entire sky is white with brushstrokes of gray. Though it’s terrifying, temporary blindness—like a sheet pulled over your eyes—is the best kind of blindness. Afterwards, it’s a relief to see anything, even a piece of black construction paper with stars punched out.   Maybe a poem can be like a beehive.  I wish you’d explain.  Here, not all of the rust- colored leaves have fallen and every day I realize that I am not in charge. What is the sky like where you live? I can wait as long as you need. Yours sincerely, Kathleen

 


Last year, Kathleen McGookey published two books of prose poems: Instructions for My Imposter (Press 53) and Nineteen Letters (BatCat Press). Her work has appeared recently in Copper Nickel, December, Field, Poetry East, The Southern Review, and 32 Poems.

… return to Issue 13.2 Table of Contents.

Previous articleHeather D. Frankland
Next articleChip Scanlan