November 18, 2020 | Poetry
in this one you’re a six foot / two hundred pound prize
Last Christmas, you asked for my latest address and sent a postcard all the way from Paris. There was a close-up shot of Hemingway’s face on the front. On the back, you wrote: “You deserve all the good in the world.” I took a picture of it but never sent anything back.
In my Sunday dress, I suckled water from the Baskin Robbin’s water fountain — the one nearest to the men’s restroom. My father sat at a table a few feet away, writing notes in his Bible for his next