written by KATIE MANNING
I have the urge to send you an email. Instead, I read through our long string of messages, chuckling at our attempts to find a more fitting name than pen pal: type twin, key companion… and tearing up again because you, my self-appointed Santa, surprised me with a poetry book last Christmas. Observer of God and garbage, Olive Garden and grief, I could never get enough of your thoughts: Shakespeare and Chicago, baseball players with names like exotic fruits. For two years, you made me believe a trip to the DMV could be the stuff of poetry. But now what do I do with this grief I feel I haven’t earned? I was made to beget.
first appeared in SKR Issue 5.4
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