a postal employee in Chicago puts a letter in slot

(frosted glass of neat keeps
me perfect)

put my grandmother’s
letter to my father back in a
ziplock. it’s seven pages of
cursive, and gives an intimate
look

at my current curse. all the
new truths inked and double sided,
numbered. she was
adopted. she was a terrible
mother. she was dying. I
don’t remember her. she
begged him to forgive.

-seven aged pages once
stuffed into a pure envelope
with a blue and red border, postage
pressed and dropped into
a slot on some
corner in ’72 somewhere in
Lyndora Pennsylvania. carrier in
Chicago suburb slides into slot-

I don’t remember her, but now
I know why
I’ve always been plagued by
a vague and native
guilt.

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