The corner was embroidered
with the name
of someone living from a box
in Eastchester.
The Chinese mail girl
with the wind-up voice
propped the envelope
against the coffee mug.
Resting, the stamp pledged allegiance
at twenty-nine cents.
The postmark, smudged at the edges,
still bore debris from New York.
To reach here,
it had traveled more days
than there are gays
in Saipan.Breathing, it eased its limbs
reached out in fine Helvetica
and said,
“Hello, I’m Marc Redman.
How are you?”
The letter’s beckoning
turned me
into this boy
playing tag with the waves
on his first trip to the sea.
Standing. At the edge,
trying to find a way
into it, intuitively.The envelope sighed
running between
my fingers.
The inside held,
the promise of a gathering crest.
Grazed upon my nose,
the paper trapped sea smell
on its breath,
traces of papyrus weeds
from whence it came.
The drying ink
exuded vapors:
a dark musk,
the bait of a huge sea mammal
waiting patiently within.
At eventide, the wave’s froth
reached my ankles,
the bubbles snuggling kisses
between my toes.
Looking down,
my feet were lost
within the swirling sand,
urgent crabs
burrowing to find a home.
I coaxed the flap to open upon a tear.
“Dear Friend,” he said,
a fine spray on my face.
A splash of sun-warmed sea
engulfed me.
It was his hand on my shoulder,
the liquid breaking into
a million planktons swimming
down the small of my back.“Dear Friend,” I read again,
the handshake extended across
from a continent
sat down
and stayed awhile
for a chat.The words echoed stories
from the inside of shells.
I even saw some dugongs spawning.
The undertow was gentle as the tide,
lifting me.
The sky, a womb.
Opening a letter
was not brusque, like the bars.
Or bruising, like the baths.June 1994, Saipan