the therapist would say, Almost.
Dear Angie, a paid optimist. And so again she'd slide the pen And
paper across the sunroom table. The first At first held upside down for
A moment or simply dropped or flung Aside. The second a thing mostly
just stared at. Again,
the pen, the paper. April, May, June, July--months of bitten, broken,
Aligned to probe an earhole with, A crumpled morsel to be tasted or
swallowed until Aglow late one afternoon Angie rushes out to greet us
with what looks like A toddler's tepee slashed once in rage
incarnate--the letter A as adduced by my father after his third stroke.
Also per Klaus, the King of Chimpanzees, in his cage At the
Internationale de Paris in 1937--held up for the crowd-- Etonnant!
Neither of which was ever followed by Another letter let history record
let alone a word. Alone--yes. Side by side, as I've placed them.
Their scanned And printed-out facsimiles Affixed with thumbtacks to the
whitewashed wall Above my desk, the silence there A silence my
shadow-head leans into, listening. As if someday an answer will emerge
from it: which the more pitiable. Ah, no. The more les dieux absents.
The more complete.