This poem first appeared in Under The Radar.
Air-speeded letters sing the light of home,
lyrical with distance, the blue and red
flecked envelopes become a mother.
Home so far away it turns into myth.
Memory lapses into dream and dreams
are forgotten. The only reality is ink.
Your mother’s handwriting neat and clean
on the blue paper, soon spidered
with age. Hands tremoring, years passing
like the planes tearing overhead as letters
exchanged over the arc of earth between
a woman and her son, par avion.
Faces, half-recalled, revived by pen:
sisters getting married, fathers always busy,
babies getting born, you missing.
Homesickness is an open wound,
you may have thrown the letters away, but
I saw the blood through your shirt.
It spoke with a red mouth.