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

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

three dreams

three dreams in
three consecutive nights:

my niece, now five or so, looks
up at the clear blue. “there’s a
flashight in the sky,” she says. I
look up at this flashlight, it
flickers brighter and brighter, till
it streaks across, a trail of
heavy smoke behind and it hits off
in the distance. the shockwave

walking through an empty amusement
park with my father at night- along
the boardwalk between a carousel
with faded horses and a
wooden roller coaster that hasn’t
seen a smiling face in years. there’s
a loud rumbling, we both look up
to see the moon fall. a tidal wave
the size of a skyscraper crests
above us.

in a room that has peach
colored walls. my head is resting
on my lover’s pregnant belly. curtains
curling in a soft yellow breeze. her
hands run through my thinning
hair. everything is silent.

I know what these dreams mean.