Beloved, men in thick green coats came crunching through the snow, the insignia on their shoulders of uncertain origin, a country I could not be sure of, a salute so terrifying I heard myself lying to avoid arrest, and was arrested along with Jocko, whose tear had snapped off, a tiny icicle he put in his mouth. We were taken to the ice prison, a palace encrusted with hoarfrost, its dome lit from within, Jocko admired the wiring, he kicked the walls to test the strength of his new boots. A television stood in a block of ice, its blue image still moving like a liquid center. You asked for my innermost thoughts. I wonder will I ever see a grape again? When I think of the vineyard where we met in October-- when you dropped a cluster custom insisted you be kissed by a stranger-- how after the harvest we plunged into a stream so icy our palms turned pink. It seemed our future was sealed. Everyone said so. It is quiet here. Not closing our ranks weakens us hugely. The snowflakes fall in a featureless bath. I am the stranger who kissed you. On sunny days each tree is a glittering chandelier. The power of mindless beauty! Jocko told a joke and has been dead since May. A bullethole in his forehead the officers call a third eye. For a month I milked a barnful of cows. It is a lot like cleansing a chandelier. Wipe and polish, wipe and polish, round and round you go. I have lost my spectacles. Is the book I was reading still open by the side of our bed? Treat it as a bookmark saving my place in our story. (here the letter breaks off)
Mary Ruefle - 1952-
It was one of those mornings the earth seemed not to have had any rest at all, her face dour and unrefreshed, no particular place-- subway, park-- expressed sufficient interest in present circumstances though flowers popped up and tokens dropped down, deep in the turnstiles. And from the dovecots nothing was released or killed. No one seemed to mind, though everyone noticed. If the alphabet died-- even the o collapsing, the l a lance in its groin-- what of it? The question 'krispies, flakes or loops?'-- always an indicator of attention-- took a turn for the worse, though crumpets could still be successfully toasted: machines worked, the idiom death warmed over was in use. By noon, postage stamps were half their width and worth but no one stopped licking. Neutrinos passed, undetected. Corpulent clouds formed in the sky. Tea was served at four. When the wind blew off a shingle or two, like hairs, and the scalp of the house began to howl, not a roofer nailed it down. That was that. When the moon came out and glowed like a night light loose in its socket, no one was captious, cautious or wise, though the toes of a few behaved strangely in bed-- they peeped out of the blankets like insects' antennae, then turned into periscopes scouting to see if the daze that was morning had actually managed to doze.