correspondence with a poet friend

Go here to see Beth’s letter to me. Here is my response:

Beth,

That day in New York, we walked between
naked men, I was right behind you.
It took some courage to follow —
not into them but out of them. I wanted to stay.
Lighting made their skin look like velvet.
I imagined kneeling, pressing my cheek against
their stomachs. It has been a long time since
I have had hair long enough to brush.
I might have turned out pretty, respectable if I’d kept it.
Still, I don’t believe art must be beautiful. It must arouse
something in me. Fear is most important.
I am afraid if I walk away I will never see beauty
again. I am afraid if I look
the sight will haunt me. In my sleep
a skeleton lies on top of me, too. His bones are
my bones. We are all mixed up. The dead puzzle
over nothing. My desire to make everything fit
means I have time for little else. June is
proving to be a month of rain, just like last year.
The field behind the house calls me
to lift my skirt and run. The lashing of tall grasses
delights me so much I may never stop. I may never stop
crying. I trust that you will understand.

~Carolee

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