I don’t know what prompted thoughts of you;
no, wait, I do know. I wanted to write something
different. Your sonnets came to mind, as did
your poems, your book of letters, your biography,
your fall down the stairs and death in 1950. Your
books were behind the left door on the third
shelf. I put them on my desk. That is when I
caught you staring at me from the cover of your
Early Poems when you were young; as was I.
The 1941 photo on Collected Sonnets beguiled
me just like when I was a teenager. Whatever
you did to me then, you still do. I spent the
afternoon reading your works just like I used to
to do. Remember what happened when I was in
high school reading your book of letters? I do.
Remember? I read your love letters to the man you
were going to marry, you know, what’s-his-name.
I slammed the book shut and never read it again.
I continued to read all the poems that touched
me, meant so much to me then. I actually
thought love might be possible for me.
I’ve never stopped reading your poetry or loving
you from afar. For me, love has been painful, or
elusive, or both. Pain isn’t a requirement for love.
I’m learning that there is beauty and love in the
saddest poem; that there is beauty and love in
the saddest life. So, there is hope love will come
although I can’t write sonnets.