Poem For The Mad Letter Writer Not With Me, Who May Not Even Be

Lyn Lifshin

Rain mangles the glass.

When we drive, this car is a 

basket that holds us 

together. But it’s all,

you know I’m pulled somewhere 

different. The map tells 

of bridges, other streets. These 

clapboard houses that stay 

like 19th century Concord. Even their

colors are fixed, made to clutch

at some past. I keep 

tasting words I’ll never 

send you, that will probably

shipwreck at the bottom 

of some poem. Do you think 

in another place this wouldn’t be 

so? Or that even here in these 

wet hills where rainy ghosts of Thoreau

are humping shadow Emilys, 

making even old word trees bloom alive, 

I could live with you, Love?

Tho I suppose you only breathe on paper.