Galena,

You know that I can never forgive you.  It is St. Patrick’s Day, and I am sitting here at my grandfather’s old desk writing you this letter and spilling green beer all over it. I can’t even cry because this beer tastes delicious. But just because I can’t cry doesn’t mean I’m going to forgive you.

What is forgiveness, anyway? Is it the unballing of a crumpled paper sitting in the shape of a fist? Is it a wife trimming her husband’s mustache? A mosquito coughing up blood? I don’t know, because that’s not how I feel.

I want to make this letter so thick that they won’t be able to slip it between the bars to give it to you. Instead, they will have to  hang it from a post just a few feet away from you, just out of your reach, and you’ll watch it flutter and dangle, a dandelion seed on the edge of a cliff, and you’ll be thirsty for it. You will want to know what it says and where I went and how I am but there is no way in hell I am going to hand-deliver it. No way.

I can’t believe the way you acted. No regard for anyone but yourself. I can’t understand it. After all I’ve done for you, all I’ve given you. I protected you, I defended you; I made sure you were warm or cold, depending on the season. And what thanks do I get? Nothing. Just stabbed in the back, a skewer through an onion, a piece of beachglass in my left foot.

Galena, you are the stupidest piece of shit zebra I have ever met, and I am transferring to the reptile exhibit because I hate you.

Sincerely,

Ms. Ashley

Assistant Zookeeper

Takoma Park Zoo

Dialogue

“Are you lactose intolerant?” he asked.

“No, I’m just not coming back for a long time,” I said. “Wow, your hands are like swans’ feet. You’re an expert packer.”

“They train us,” he explained.  “’The Pornographer’s Poem.’ Looks interesting. How is it?”

“It’s amazing! I’m doing a re-read. It’s about a radical teacher and these kids who make films. You’d probably like it if you’re into those kinds of things.”

“Well, I’m into radical people doing radical things. But I don’t know about that other stuff.”

“Oh, come on. Who isn’t into film?”

“There’s lipstick on your teeth,” he said.

“Oh, thanks. So do you want to borrow it?”

“What? Maybe. Sorry, I was distracted by all this cheese. There’s no price on the brie. How much do you want to pay for it?”

“Three twenty-nine,” I said. “That’s my birthday.”

“Oh!” he said. “Happy birthday!”

“Thanks, but I was lying.”

“Oh. Yeah, I’ll borrow the book.”

“Cool. Here’s my business card. Ignore how it looks like a great aunt’s wallpaper; the graphics were free.”

“So we’re doing business now, too?”

“No, but you have to know where to drop it off when you’re done,” I explained.

“Oh, right. You can swipe whenever you’re ready,” he said.

“Okay. Well, here’s the book. Don’t steal it or spill anything weird on it, please. Coffee or tomato sauce is fine, but nothing green. Green bugs me.”

“Nothing green. You got it. Thanks a lot. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

“Great. Thank YOU, Packstrordinaire.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Have a good day.”

"Bye."

for years we were jars,

quiet as ferns and collecting 

snow,

sun-refracted and complacent on the windowsill.

the samoyeds nosed us, smiling, and

we measured life with a wooden ruler,

the number tables worn off the back.

i am full of lemons,

pert and squinting, edgy as tree-rings,

a stray going home in the rain.

i fill trains with my metrology,

collect their words 

like all the jackets on 

a cold night.