I roll two sheets in….. like you taught me so
The platen won’t get worn out….. and again
I write to you….. I write you here….. I know
Now you’re more me than you….. I’m writing in
Winter and you’re the stiffness and the cold
Still in my fingers….. but in summer you
Would be….. the bladed fingers wounding cold
Air from the hot….. air at the window you
Would be….. the roaring of the blades
Hacking the summer from the air….. and my relief
Grandmother tell me is it best to breathe
But is it better to be comforted
We didn’t speak for years….. after I left
Writing you here I give the death I take
I know I should feel wounded by your death
I write to you to make a wound write back