Really rather blown away by the below poem by Eric Raanan Fischman (an MFA candidate at Naropa University)
for Jennifer Faylor
By the time you read this, the air
will turn white. The Sun will wake up
like a winter bloom, harvesting
its own light, and the barren clouds will break
like mirrors in a house of mourning.
There will be no more storms, no bombs,
no more seeds of ice. Only the stark feel
of white paper, and the blue sound of my voice.
This is not the first letter I’ve written you,
but all the others were composed
on the backs of sealed, stamped envelopes.
A woman in Boise, Idaho believes
that I cannot live without her. A man
in Tennessee keeps my soul on his bed-stand.
A Nicaraguan coffee farmer is the sole proprietor
of warm, passionate, August nights.
Here inside the mailbox, it is always
- Under the rectangular moon, the stamps
and envelopes make love like fireflies.
Magazines peek from beneath their covers.
And I fashion this letter, on a Cosmo’s table
of contents, on a Chinese take-out menu,
on my arms, my lips, and the steam of my breath,
hoping that it will reach you.
-Eric Raanan Fischman, published in Sixers Review