Letter to the Younger Me
Hello, darling. The sky is gray
this morning, like an old wool blanket left
out in the rain. In the bookstore,
I misheard someone asking
for “the graphic novel” as them wanting “the death
of the novel” and I thought, “of course.” How are you
getting along? Lately, I keep trying
to peel myself like an apple, pare everything down, open up
like envelopes or doors. It isn’t working–
so much easier to watch
the inexorable march of digital numbers pressing forward
under the smooth surface of the clock. These minutes:
orderly little lemmings plunging
into the dark gray sea
or they’re the small enameled cars
I’d make a caravan of and push
so they tumbled
off the white wicker snow-cliff of the couch. Oh clanging
against the tiled sunroom floor. Come back,
sun on the floor, slow-moving
trapezoidal shape projected in through the window
when I had all the hours left in the world.
— Kate Angus