Christina Goldstein

Letters to Maxwell Solomon, Unsent

1.

Well, I had, of course,

thought about it before

(your long lovely bones,

childlike rightness of every

motion) but this, darling,

was not grown in a

bubble in space--

the welling up in you,

then the hot summer

night the liquor

brought it up burning,

sent us, smelling of chlorine

and charcoal, clumsy

tumbling down and

down into a bright

roaring, all hot and

white and swimming,

and the quiet smiling morning

I left you (looking

soft as memory) for work,

and couldn’t wait

for the lunch hour to

come home and

kiss you sweetly.

But you had gone.

2.

And the day of

hermit crabs and

cheese sandwiches,

riding home with

the ocean on our lips

and in our bones,

letting my papers fly

out the car window

(the sand broke stars

in your black hair),

highway glittering, for us,

everycolor blue--

we stopped only to

hold forever

the sound of wind

through momentary

trees.

3.

That night I found you

so drunk you couldn’t

stand, couldn’t stand

yourself, tearing

at your clothes

like you didn’t know

they were nothing,

I could have laughed

the names of lovers

forever on ice and

the so many poems

about you,

Maxwell Solomon,

but here I am,

alone, with

letters, unsent.

IV.

Last night

I dreamed you

white and frail

as the picked-over

bone of a bird,

eyes like bruises

in your face,

black frozen lakes

weighting the tundra

of your skin.

It was no use,

my calling,

my self.

And now,

even my

bottle of Saint Jude’s

won’t help me

forget.

Christina Goldstein is currently living and writing in Tampa, FL. This is her first published piece.