Letters I’ve Written You, Mentally, Sometimes While Commuting
By: Beth Dufford
I now hope you aren’t keeping up.
I imagined us on the phone earlier and you, out of boredom, tried to get me
to say something nice about the Circus and, failing, paused and said
Well, you know, he’s very popular!
just to hear my lungs fill with righteousness. I then continued to sit on the bus, my lungs filled with righteousness. And then I laughed.
Today’s question for you: how do the flowers know it’s nighttime?
I fear. I do; I’m sorry. I am filled with it.
I’m afraid you wouldn’t recognize the place already. There are a fraction of the ambassadors and so
many signposts have been removed on the sly.
Things I can think of that are still here include things I can think of that are still here. But I know
there are missing catalogs and dead links and non-existent catalogs of dead links and whole
libraries rendered null one bit at a time.
Question: have you ever been a bird? Are you one now?
I’m exhausted and have just one question: is it true all the dogs we once knew are there?
Beth Dufford lives, works, and writes in Kerhonkson, NY and sometimes in New York City. Her work has appeared in Barrow Street, The Little Magazine, Rise Up Review, Common Ground Review, and Crab Creek Review. Her chapbook, Microscopic Peaceful Implosions, was published in May 2018 by Eyewear Publishing.