In the Post

A new poem

Alan Brownjohn

In the middle of a batch of junk
one with her writing, these days
the postmark uninformative…
It might be precious. The smaller
kitchen knife opens it, and I’ll keep
the envelope because it’s part of her.

The contents are a jade green-
twice-folded half of a torn A4,
spelling out NO MORE WORDS.
Well at least I didn’t this time have
to pay for the lack of a stamp, -I’m sorry?
-Yes. I’ll still keep the envelope.

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The ravenous longing for the infinite possibilities of “otherwhere”

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"Yuletide revels were designed to see you through the dark days — and how dark they seem today"
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