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.
