The Letter

burning-paperBy Alan W. Jankowski

We’ve all wanted to send a letter like this at one time. Forgiveness is not always easy.

I poured out every thought upon the page,
Filling it up with all the rage and anger,
That you have instilled inside me.
My pen literally quivered,
As I held it in my sweaty hand,
Yet the words flowed swiftly,
As venomous as any snake,
And almost as deadly.
As I poured the last of the wine into my glass,
I reviewed my handiwork.
Three pages of anger.
Three pages of hurt.
An expression of all you’ve done to me,
As best as I possibly could.
I carefully folded the letter,
And stuffed it in the envelope.
And with quivering pen,
I wrote out your address.
It was late, and I’d post it in the morning.
I went off to bed that night.
The next day I spent quietly around the house.
It was cold outside,
And it was warm by the fire.
In the afternoon,
I opened another bottle of wine.
I sat pensively for some time,
Just watching the flames dance
Upon the logs in the fireplace.
Amidst the crackling of the timbers,
I picked up the envelope.
I stare down at your name upon it.
I take another sip of wine,
And remove the letter.
As I begin to read it again,
I am reminded of everything you’ve ever done.
All the hurt you’ve caused,
To myself and my family,
Comes back again over three pages.
My blood starts to boil again,
And my palms start to sweat.
There is a damp thumbprint on the page,
And the edges of the letter are damp and frayed,
From holding it tightly in my hands.
I lean back in my chair.
I know I am not ready to forgive.
I don’t know that I ever will be.
And God knows I will never forget.
In fact, I hope you rot in Hell,
And if I could deliver you there myself,
Lord knows, I would.
But, I can never stoop to your level.
I can never stoop to your level.
I sit for some time just watching the fire.
In a while, I pick up the letter,
And walk over to the fireplace.
I toss it upon the flames.
I sit back down and sip my wine.
And as I watch the letter burn,
The sparks crackling,
And the black soot fall upon the logs,
I know I can never stoop to your level,
But, there’s a part of me that says to myself,
“God, I wish that letter were you.”

* * *
© 2011 by Alan W. Jankowski • All rights reserved

 

Words

by Cecilia Rogers

Words come and go.The poetry muse dropped by at an inconvenient moment, and was sadly ignored

Words
Flittered and skittered
across the surface of my mind,

Had they been caught,
pinned down,
Written in time

I would have had a poem
of grace and style,
Memorable, perhaps,
for its scansion and rhyme.

But they weren’t:
At that moment
I was making supper,
And drinking some wine.

© 2011 Cecilia Rogers  All rights reserved.

 

For Whom the Good Tolls

Glass of wine

By Bill Fullerton
(with apologies to ‘Papa’ Hemingway)

In a clean, well-lighted place out of the rain, the man and woman drank wine. The wine was good.

They ate the testicles of a young bull that had bravely faced death in the afternoon. Both were good.

Back in their room, he went to her breasts. Her breasts were there, and good.

“You were good,” she said.

“De nada,” he said, and left. It had been good.

They met no more.

Each died alone—in the rain.

It was a good rain, except on the mountain where snow fell on a frozen leopard. It was also good, and dead.

* * *
© 2012 by Bill Fullerton • All rights reserved