This letter has only one purpose.
It wants to flood your skin
It wants to whisper in your ear
It wants to feel the full length
of your body as it curves
around someone’s back and hips
into a crescent of pie
spilling on to the plate.
This letter only wants to be a love letter.
It wants to do its job
and then end up in a box with siblings
tied in black thread.
It wants to be found by grown children
after a death,
with disbelief that someone
who smelled like unwashed clothes
and forgot the name for most things
could have a letter like this one.
Still wet, juicy and overflowing
Fat berries from the crust.
© annie fahy,2017
See my book of poetry on Amazon called The Glass Train…