There is cooking,
and washing dishes,
and every afternoon
the bed gets fresh sheets,
crumbs from the past week
swept off the surface of
the mattress.
The aloe vera plant on the windowsill,
its leaves clipped,
blunt, straight cuts on the tips,
where its soft insides
were drained
and smothered onto
splotchy red mosquito bites.
There is worrying about having bed bugs,
about undereating,
about clogged arteries,
swollen tendons
And then,
while sorting old papers,
recognizing the handwriting
on an envelope,
even after all this time.
It’s only my name,
and the card has gone missing,
but the shapes of those letters
are unmistakable
Being enclosed, warm and
sleepy already,
but staying up just to
finish this letter
Folding an envelope,
pocket and flaps.
The name on the front,
your name in my handwriting.