LOV E LE T T E R R AT T L I N G T H E B E LL JAR
Dear Less Than Judy Garland, love is merely a suggestion: an Oz-factory of rube-red sequins manufactured from parts of the witch’s heart. Let me propose an alternative plot: a nightedged merlot, a riding crop with a clause, a mildly historical curse. Better yet, you arsoned your way across the room, past the pine needles and the holly. I widened my loneliness to include you. So very so. We gooseberried, then married. All afternoon, we lay in bed listening to the early recordings of rain. We floated, but still found ourselves submerged. When the listening ceased, you made a bridge of my fingers. I tore your name in half and let the river decide which vowels to drown. Oh fuck the why, the what and the how—Darling, this year I choose your meatloaf all over again. I choose your naked feet upon my bare chest.