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Sandra Kolankiewicz

Who Are You

Who are you under the bottom flap of 

this thirty years old box of letters, stained 

from being first in an attic, then in 

a basement, later in the back of a 

closet of a playroom undergoing 

construction, a space that had to wait five 

years to be completed because we ran 

out of money, our son’s illness being 

expensive, one more organic acid 

test or fecal metal analysis 

more important than finishing a game 

room we’d never play in.  Here you lie, tucked 

among letters of those I can recall, 

some of whom I would rather forget, or 

who would prefer they had never written 

their promises down, declarations of 

undying heart in between similar

promises to other people, for I know 

their love was never for me, but for my 

hair and the way other men would look at 

us when we were together.  Cast aside 

or save forever?  I cannot tell which 

since I do not remember you, cannot 

connect a face to name, body to heart, 

memory to touch, no eyes to evoke 

gazing at me from the other end of 

a pillow, yet this letter says you will 

go mad unless I write you back, a card 

from every city you visited in 

Europe, saying you called even between 

trains, wondering why I never answered.

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