I got a card the other
day, from a woman I’ve 
always loved. I knew to 
wait for morning to open 
it. At night her words could 
flow to my feet and grind
their pace in the hallway. 
This time I waited then ran
to work, to think on other 
things, wishing my smile
weren’t thrown sideways 
by the air in the envelope. 

The card arrived from 
multiple planes and split 
into many translations. 
Linguists could debate 
the many few words
from a language known
only to three. I didn’t 
need a linguist. I read the 
note and knew the love, 
the unlove, and the 
twisted fight with 
anger.  The empty space 
where the words were 
born was bigger than
I could answer.