In This Letter Is My Freedom
I have a page, and a pen, and a well
of the blackest words;
but my memories stain
the page in splotches of iron
and salt, as my humor leaks out.
The parchment shrivels,
crackles, and my creases
are sharp and hard. Like the eyes
of a child who will not cry, though
the wind makes powder of his bones.
My husband cares little for letters,
and those of a woman, bursting,
he imagines of little
consequence, but to wipe up the mess
she makes when he’s finished.
This is my declaration, my will,
that all of me
on this earth may speak
what would break any heart,
so soft as to break my seal.
You must know, in your own time,
that a cage makes the sweetest
sound, heard anywhere,
for holding on to silence
when all other hearts would scream.
Since I’m gonna be posting an epistolary novel, I thought I’d share this poem about the power of letters I found with you.