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The Awaited Letter
is always penned at night,
not necessarily in stealth
but in a site or manner more
cherished and rare--privacy.
Much of it comes in single
cloud-bursts of ardour or
empathy; much more than ink
flows when it is written.
Then, only words on the page
remain and the pleasure of
being spent. What actually
was written is forgotten.
Once finished, the writer is
anxious to dispatch it as if
its portents must reach their
favoured destination at once.
The eyes that read it over
and the hands that seal
the cover are wont to be a
trifle restless, impatient;
sometimes the stamp can be
askew, the flap soaked
in glue, or there's a minor
error in the address.
The act of actually posting it
is never innocent; prominent
post offices are preferred
for the security they induce.
But once in, it's out of her
hands; a certain feeling of
freedom follows but also a
familiar fear: will it reach?
All night the letter lies awake
quietly, waiting, almost smugly
because it knows how unlike
it is to its pedestrian peers.
The envelope is picked up, marked,
sorted, flung, trussed up, tossed
hither and thither, handled by
so many during its long journey,
creased, sometimes stained with
greasy fingers, or damp and
smudged in the rain. But inside,
the letter itself is intact,
a virgin, unseen and untouched
by any, snugly smiling in anti-
cipation of yielding itself
only to her rightful owner.
The latter already knows it
is on its way as if the sender
had kissed him in a dream
to inform him of its coming.
Yet a feline unease shadows him
as he awaits to repossess that
which he surrendered so suddenly
in a fond or foolish overture.
Waiting, even for what he
knows will arrive, is so hum-
bling; whom can he blame if a
promised missive miscarries?
While he cannot admit the eager-
ness of his need, it has already
reached his post office to be
dropped into his box tomorrow--
or else, it glows distressed,
like a radioactive particle,
in some godforsaken graveyard
of undelivered messages.
Having once reached, look how
teasing it can be, lurking
inconspicuously between all
sorts of junk-mail, only to
spring into his hands suddenly,
dazing him with surprised
joy, and making him shy with
pride, like a woman pleased.
Perhaps, the sender well knows
that both her hands and eyes
have left invisible traces that
rekindle themselves on contact:
some letters, like poems, must
not only be read, but smelt,
stroked, held, and even carried
like shy brides, to bed.
But life is not literature;
an awaited letter is habitually
never written; if written
it is often never posted
but recessed into that inner
wilderness which is awaste
with so many unlived or erased
wishes and sickened dreams.
Even when it is signed, posted,
and received, its comforts
eventually abate: found,
the lost beloved is revealed
as the image of one's own
self. Correspondents who
are experienced know that
somewhere the longed-for one
awaits every seeker; we watch
helpless as a strange magnetism
draws us together even over
the chasms of several shipwrecked
births: how the received letter
works its magic fusing him into
into her! Now the reply he must
write becomes the awaited letter.
