page 122

Epilogue

Sylvia writes in dark blue pen.
Her letter-forms don't loop
she is what teachers called him,
a very tidy printer.

She always mentions the dahlias
and, like she had just realized
she says, Federico
I wish I knew you.

She writes again.
My garden is a picture
by that French painter you like.
And, Federico,
you are my lovely son.

He keeps matchbooks on his desk
that he collects as he travels.
Sometimes he sends them to her.

The red tip of his smoke burns
a hole in the dark. Outside the boats
are strung with lights.

He writes to her, says,
Sylvia, go out to your summer garden,
lie on the grass, watch the animals
move in the sky.