Let there be a shelter for letters
from lovers jilted or left to float in uncertainty.
A mutual severing does not need sanctity
or a trail of correspondence,
but for those reluctant to let go
let there be a place of refuge.
Memories of hair brushed gently from the eyes,
an elbow gently cupped to help the lover
cross a busy street.
The flesh retains the imprint of such tenderness.
The post office too brusque a place
where boxes in brown paper, marked fragile,
are tossed like all the rest.
No room for nostalgia, fluorescent light
too unforgiving to retrace a path.
Let us find another place,
perhaps the guardhouse of a cemetery,
The one room can be divided by
Japanese screens, even translucent curtains.
Small piles of letters tied by pastel ribbons
in one corner, those more incendiary
stacked in an old cigar box,
guarded on the lid by a woman
in a fruit-ladened hat.