Georgia O'Keefe's Black Iris print
droops from the wall like a stamp
that has been licked one too many times.
Mary yearns for the sting of mint
in the envelope flap. The rush of
running her hungry tongue along
a sharp edge, its threat to cut—long
and deep.
The hand-written letter in her palm
would eventually find its way
to his door, resembling a carrier pigeon
with news too important for distraction.
The wind carrying crepe-paper words
folded into intimate conversation.
It didn't matter if there was no reply.
If silence circled her heart
using a pencil with no eraser.
He would see the writing in soft pink
and know it was her. The seal unbroken,
waiting to be violated.
