Dear Sirs or Madame, I was pushed through legs into the hard world. Dressed for weather but left naked to mirrors. By the time I was sixteen, I saw seventeen coming for me. I was an early adopter of cloud formations. I managed laughs. I was never too proud to swipe. Eventually, corporate heads recruited me, from the obsolete verb to grow again. In the personal part I want to say I am commensurate with others in pain. For example, last night’s speaker, in the middle of the lecture, shrieked: can someone turn down the sound of that horrible, bloody fucking air-conditioner! And a voice in the audience that was mine replied: it’s rain. My eye is an appointment, circled red. My walk is on file. I have come full circle regarding the cherry blossoms. Where once I witnessed them on the tree; now I see them on the grounds. I know, excel. Contact me soon. I’ll come and go. Ask any moon. With all respect due, M
Merridawn Duckler is a poet, playwright from Portland, Oregon and the author of INTERSTATE from Dancing Girl Press. Recent work in Ninth Letter, Juked, Heron Tree, the anthologies Climate of Opinion: Sigmund Freud in Poetry and Weaving the Terrain: 100 Word Southwestern Poems from Dos Gatos Press. Fellowships/awards include NEA, Yaddo, Squaw Valley, SLS in St. Petersburg, Russia, Southampton Poetry Conference, Wigleaf Top 50. She is an editor at Narrative and at the international philosophy journal Evental Aesthetics.