Sport 32: Summer 2004
Matthew Boyd Goldie — Apostrophe
May this heavy-eyed letter find you, at home, at peace.
For my part, I believe we imitate language
Just as this letter enters your hand
Felt rather than expressed.
You're there, sure, turning your back along
The front concrete path but holding the message.
In that strange, cool, April hallway
The phosphorous sunlight closes it all behind you.
Your mother had two beliefs: saying can stop its appearance
And all is fated. She talked about her end
Listed the preparations
And after she was gone and what you would do.
It all felt like plot. At the center though
There is resilience at the center.
O which of her flowers make it in this
Planted deep within the enclosed garden?
So I had to write this letter.
There is no common language between us today
Unless it is now pressed in our hands, here
Odd shaped and roughly pitted.
Eloquence, as it has long been, is the problem.
As is mood. It has affected this writing.
I have been imitating you imitating the hall with your eyes.
In there's an excuse for not calling or coming around.