My letters to Norco
kept you sane, you said.
Three years there for
selling meth. But I
wrote to you so you
wouldn’t forget me.
And you wrote back.
Beautiful and sad letters.
Strong letters. But the
third one scared me
and then made me mad.
You told me that you
rented my letters
to your homies for a
quarter so they could
beat off to my sex-filled
longings where I told
you what my mouth could
do to your body and what
I wanted you to do to me.
But then I wasn’t so mad.
And the thought of your
friends getting off from
my words made me smile.
So I made each new letter
even better, hotter than
the last. And when you
wrote back and told me
your homies loved my
words and that you could
charge thirty-five cents
now, I laughed at my
power.
And on your release day
as we stood in the August
heat outside the tall fence,
you held me and whispered
into my hair that we should
get married as soon as we
could and have lots of babies.
And you said my letters kept
you sane. And I said, me too,
mi amor. Me too.