In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.

Don’t put your disembodied voice in an envelope-
send objects,
tangibles from Vermont, like the broken thread
from the  last shirt button you’ve lost,
I should see you as you are.
What kind of soap is in your bathroom;
where do you keep your car keys? Send me
your favorite recipe, something from your pocket
like a ticket stub or tattered list.
I’ll answer you promptly
enclosing dust from my closet,
mud from the soles of my shoes.
Can you imagine me exhausted,
tissues tucked in a sleeve,
lying beside my husband, who, regardless,
caresses my hip? I send you
a toenail clipping
or the umpteen odd barrettes, rubber bands,
unanswered letters scattered in my drawer.
Don’t write in sentences.
No matter how we feel, send specifics- a branch
of your family’s Christmas tree,
your daughter’s loose tooth, crumbs
from the toast you ate this morning.
Send me what defies
language, something of which
there isn’t any doubt.

transcribed by thefalsetruths