How do I tell you?

The letter tucked neatly
inside the crease of the desk
hides away from the present
life. Crisp,
it is the past,
harsh, it is the evidence
of youthful play and adult hurt.

Anna, oh Anna
sometimes we don’t talk;
I know,
sometimes we don’t talk.
But I am trapped within my flesh,
I am trapped within my flesh;
I am forever trying to break
out of my skin tight prison.
Anna, oh Anna
sometimes we don’t talk;
I know,
sometimes we don’t talk.

The letter slips
so easily into Anna’s hand.
The wood has parted,
the place of concealment
opened
and the past slides
into view.

Anna, oh Anna
I wish for us
to lie together.
I wish for us
to lie together at night.
Anna, oh Anna
I wish for us
to lie together this night.

The words are bitter
and Anna swallows hard;
the taste is not fresh,
but it is tinged with sweet
from the hiding place in the oak.
It is strokes
from the unspoken past
and it burns her fingers.

Anna, oh Anna
how do I tell you?
How do I tell you that it was different
in that life?
How do I tell you that I
have learned?
Anna, oh Anna
how do I say
“I will not hurt you”?

Palms still hurt
from the heat,
she slides the letter,
flickering still,
back into the secret crease.
The pain of each ink drop remains.

Anna, oh Anna
please,
I plead.
Anna, oh Anna
you have withdrawn and
my bone tight cell
keeps me
from following.
Anna, oh Anna.



Copyright 1982-2003 by Peter A. Stinson.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.