I hear you hit a hole in one. The way you must have arched your back, pockmarked with
divots, it must have been a chore. I hit a hole in one. His name, I forget it. Sandra Day
O’Connor, may I? Just say? I don’t have words for it. Sandra Day, Sandra Dee. I had him
be my undersides, he slipped in so well. You say you have gavels for teeth? I don’t even
know what it looks like, Sandra Day. I fed him cocaine for breakfast. For breakfast, for
supper. I fed him full through our winters. You swing your robes like golf clubs? You
clutter so, Sandra Dee Oh! His eyes are foreign. You fixed yourself so poised. I like it
when he’s bent crooked like a club, an iron. I think of you on the first hole in plaids,
O’Connor Day, Oh Sandra. The light catches your hair like fisheyes. The way I plant my
palms on his back as we fuck, it leaves divots like your drives, O’Connor Dee. I like to
fill them. I curl up as small as I can and climb into the holes I leave in his back. He tells
me this is how you rule. I believe him because I am miniscule, like your hands. Sandra
Dee Oh Day O’Connor, sincerely I utter words. He fell limp two hours ago. You play
golf like the little lakes that pour from his lips.

10/19/2006

Author's Note: A letter to a loved one. Edited March 17th 2008

Posted on 10/19/2006
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