early afternoon or late

dark night.

No one

speaking.

The cat asleep, curled

into the c of her name;

the dog with nothing to bark at.

A bird sings a half-hearted tone.

Essentially, alone.

The pen has ink enough.

Paper smells fresh.

The envelope’s glue tastes of mint.

The writer doesn’t

know that yet.

She tells

about the tomato she tracked

as it ripened,

for eleven days, green

to mud brown, to red.

She sliced white bread, spread

with mayonnaise. When she

went to pick the fruit,

she found a squirrel

had beaten her to it.

A nibbled red world dead in dirt.

Think of the imperfection

of sharing, she writes, the necessity

of forfeiture 

and transcendence.

She tells of cutting away

the animal’s piece

to slice the rest, a heart bleeding,

a valentine for herself.

I wish, she adds post script,

you were here.