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.
