Poetry

Slush pile

The envelope is rough under my fingers.

Debossed

where the pen has been guided,

quick, hasty shapes

that are not so very far from my own.

The stamp in one corner, red

this time. A week ago, it was blue.

Then the letter itself, stained

with tea to age it,

when the grain is clearly young.

The words mean less and less:

What is my name?