Dear monologist/friend extraordinaire:
Thank you for the complimentary copy.
We passed it around like smut or chocolate,
sorry only that the lazaretto’s
sad lack of bookmarks and gold stars
(not to mention our decaying hands)
hindered our ability to note
our favorite passages. How wrenchingly
you’ve made a malady a metaphor,
our boils and wails to social awkwardness
perceptively, triumphantly aligned.
Skin clearing up some, wish you were here;
do keep us posted on your future work.
Yours in solidarity,
P.S: how well lies can pass the time.
Now blow the skin-flakes off this stinking page,
squeeze the last dewdrop from your lemon peel,
flop down on your velvet armchair and
take it from us that you have done us wrong,
done us disservice—your props could have been
a kiss, a camera and a stethoscope;
instead you brought a ballpoint and a mirror,
stored both inside that ludicrous black cape,
and when you drove up to the colony
you never left your car. You limned our limbs,
more partial to your punning than our howling;
you nibbled on our necks from far away
and from that distance couldn’t know our hair
turns white, not green. We wonder what poor wretch
you’ll pick on next; we shiver in the night
when the light dawns that we were never seen.
P.P.S: Come back again someday.
Copyright © Persea Books 2010
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Persea Books.