Correspondence

I remember clearly that your mother slices apples for your lunch.

 

I remember more clearly that, soon, you are sailing aboard a tugboat made of moons to that place underground where lives the cat: the subterranean cat of which you are not afraid. All other cats startle your spine—but not this cat; he serves crumpets and ginger tea, plays an accordion marinated in the Danube’s brine…

 

But this, I remember most clearly: that

 

Rusalka, abducted by the sea, cried so much it scrubbed her eyes used-car clean and now she (seems) to squint less.  Her newfound lenses wish it so—but just what they wish, they still don’t know…

 

because the true tragedy of modern life is that you are not around. I am glitter without glue; but if you were here, you would see me sparkle—and move—oh how I move!—rolling like this delicious marble purloined from Poseidon. In it swirls the wrath of the Caspian and the mirth of the Aegean, like mahogany waltzing with meringue.  I will show it to you when next we sail and you will like it: for we are marble people, know that people need marbles, even when they lose them…

 

So listen up, here’s the deal: the deal to snagging work at sea; it’s not about who you know or even what you know:  just track down the salty smells of the past and mold it like Michelangelo because what did Madame Sostris so desire?  Just Sheppard’s pie, a fortress crust and a fairly liberal sprinkling of lust.

 

Now, the supervisor out there, he’s a real rough and tumble sort of fella’. You’ll have to survive a couple rounds of Marco Polo just to make sure your legs speak of determination.  You’ll fare fine, your father’s daughter, ‘cause your Daddy didn’t wrestle no waves to birth some sand fairy.

 

You may sink, you probably won’t swim, your fins will eventually find the cove we once staked out—where stands my igloo made of lullabies adjacent to yours carved from recycled dreams.

 

You could ride the sea horse express—but than you’d miss all the mess!  So just watch out for a line via tin-can phone:

 

You’re not damned to be a mail-order bride. (STOP).  I promised your Pa I’d bring back his favorite sea-sprite…he was keepin’ watch at the docks—with those Phoenician ladies of the rocks—but at some point he tired and fell asleep.  He is silly that father of yours—but not as silly as your Mama who’s still slicin’ apples—even though you’re now allergic.  You should hitch-hike home and tell her; I’ll meet you half-way.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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