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The Letter

By Melissa Purswell

There’s a letter in the console of my car

buried beneath carbon copied evidence

of oil changes, brake pads, a new muffler.

I’ll see it every so often under paper napkins

and remember the idea I had to write you.

I don’t recall the feeling of that urge,

or the letting go of it

now that the corners of the envelope

are bent and your address is beginning to fade,

bleeding into the white space

that surrounds your name.

I look at it lying in wait

like a pistol or a lead pipe

and wonder if I will ever let it go—

Categories

Poetry, The River

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