Say someone dies and leaves an envelope
buried in her underwear drawer, sealed
and carefully inscribed: to be opened
after my death. Imagine the usual
sentiments inside – regret and gratitude,
perhaps not a complete baring of the soul,
but a distinct voice, at least, an attitude
you’d recognize – until you reach the slight
slights and buried barbs – grievances that allude
to you. The last word’s not the only word to last –
still, it would be nice if the words inside
of letters were as mutable as the letters
inside of words – if we could set aside
those hurtful asides – or turn them into clauses –
watch how the intent would shift from incite
to insight if even if we weren’t that close
slid to the beginning of the sentence –
the even if evened out in the closing.
Or what if we switched the tense – to not tense?
Oh, I know we can’t change what words mean
but we do have means to negotiate distance –
measures to slow us down, marks that demand
separation – so that for a few seconds
we might step back and with a clear mind
observe our surroundings through a second
lens – all that guilt that had just enveloped
us, suddenly feeling sealed off, contained.
Ben Berman is the author of three books of poems and the collection of essays, Writing While Parenting, a 2023 Times Literary Supplement Best Book of the Year. He has won the Peace Corps Award for the Best Book of Poetry, has been shortlisted twice for the Massachusetts Book Awards and has received awards from the Massachusetts Cultural Council, New England Poetry Club and Somerville Arts Council. He’s been teaching for twenty-five years and currently teaches creative writing classes at Brookline High School. He lives in the Boston area with his wife and two daughters.
