"postmark: paris, 1948...."

"dearest michael..."

she writes from the bank of
the seine on a cloudy may day
in paris...

"the days are long and dusty here
as refugees pour into the city from
every corner of the continent
they are hungry and tired,
hollow with fear and sorrow

i miss the rough wool of your
uniform and that funny way you have
of saying my name as if it is something
delicate you are holding on your tongue

i dream of indiana and your mother's
kitchen, and your father's garden full of
long beans and pink sweetpeas climbing
over white pickets near the mailbox where
your sister will pick up this letter
and you will know I am
out here...somewhere.....

i do not care that you will never see my face
or that your mother must read this to you...
I did not fall in love with your ability to see
trees, and trucks, and the color of the sky,
i fell in love with the way you saw into my
heart and led me out from the prison of my
terror.

the barrister you hired says that my papers
will come soon and that I will be able to
board the steamer in july, I will be there in
time for the pumpkins you have described.
I will be there to walk to you in a white dress
and say, "i do" in front of your family.

I will say it in English.  I have been practicing
I love you,
Emilie

p.s. thank you for reading this to michael