by Michael Minassian
The postcards arrived week after week
each one from a different state
and signed with a different name:
Ramona, Lady Jane, Angel, Miranda;
all of them written in your lazy scrawl
leaning to the right like trees in the wind
two burning eyes drawn above
my name written in red ink.
Later one night, I hear a noise
outside my window
as if someone rearranged
the furniture of the wind;
perhaps it is you
sharpening your dreams
or the ghost of lost words
preparing for your return.
Process notes: The poem was inspired by a series of anonymous letters I received after graduating college many years ago.
Michael Minassian is a Contributing Editor for Verse-Virtual, an online magazine. His chapbooks include poetry: The Arboriculturist (2010) and photography: Around the Bend (2017). For more information: https://michaelminassian.com
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