Dear John Letter by Carolyn Moore
Hey, it’s me—the grit in your oyster that never turned
to pearl—writing to you, cigarette butt in my salad
before I finished lunch. Whatthehell were you doing
in last night’s storm, knocking at my dream door
after all these years of leaving me alone,
in peace? Was it because your new wife phoned, edgy,
quavering, duty-bound to share your news?
I slipped into my better-you-than-I apron
and served her alas sandwiches of ooh and ah,
with a side of pardon, free of charge. My dream door,
back to that—what was your point in tracking mud
to its welcome mat with nothing new to tsk or blub?
And why did we pretend that you still lived?
CAROLYN MOORE’s four chapbooks won their competitions; her book What Euclid’s Third Axiom Neglects To Mention about Circles won the White Pine Press Poetry Prize. She taught at Humboldt State University (Arcata, California) but is now a freelance writer working from the last vestige of the family farm in Tigard, Oregon.