September 13, 2012

Dear Hedda,

Don’t give up.  I am trying.  Inside this overgrown refrigerator the Americans call Alaska, I am trying to learn

to sing Mozart cantatas to make their dung beetles dance, like you and I danced at graduation, my hand on the open back of your dress.

I am trying to learn to open

my mouth to kiss the hyperphagic bears, frozen whiter than the taste of inside-out coconut skulls, like the ones you stole from the market and dropped down the stairwell at school.  When I’m hungry, I practice sticking out my tongue

dialing my mouth back down those stairs, and licking the milky juice as it oozes to the bottom.

I practice sucking it back up to the high peaks, humming eine kleine nachtmusik.

And pretending I can slide back down across the water to you.



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