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ERIN C. HASTINGS
Letter to Victoria Lucas
The humidity makes me
think of you. Alone in that
oven baking breast cookies
with heart-shaped nipples,
your children staring in
with carbon copies of your
heuristic sequined eyes.
We are two of the same with
our expert smile practiced in
every passing mirror, restless
nights spent floating about
the bed and insulin shock
treatments that plowed
through our bodies to
reveal exhausted farmland.
I know about the doctors
who bobbed their heads
in your dark waters, never
supporting your weight and
the melancholy cork that
seduced you within the
bell jar like a fine Merlot.
I know about the fire
for one man, the blazes set
within the inside of your
thighs as well as the loss
and the shards of glass
felt in the small of your back
with every sleepless turn.
I know of the waiting,
the endless waiting
for the phone to ring
to pacify the colic child within
and the god awful silence that
drowned you in your bed.
But our experiences separate us
like wind exhaling through
strands of angel hair because
I am your Lady Lazarus and
you are merely my guide.
Copyright ERIN C. HASTINGS
(all rights reserved; To copy or translate this poem, please contact the poet)
TRANSLATOR and ILLUSTRATOR WANTED FOR THIS PAGE
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