A Poem by Anon ymous

I will write her a letter; fold it into a map, an antidote to loss.
If it is good enough it will capture the sound of birds in flight,

the smell of fresh cut wood. My youth was misspent on bare
floors and gravel roads. She was nineteen; fiancé in Rochester,

sneaked her mom’s smokes, wore glasses; was pretty in an
un-pretty kind of way. I was a crow with tattooed wings, sitting

tight in a high back chair on the wire between sober and drunk;
it was wrong, all wrong all the time; right up to the very end.