by Nora Pace
I left my letter in Ashaway
where the woods run close to the road.
On Monday night you’ll open it,
you’ll read the scrawl of my sorrow
as I am leaving you,
fleeing with window panes
to the West.
I will be older the next time I see you.
It’s time to buy houseplants
and count my pennies,
time to live where the woods stay
behind their fences; where skunks don’t run
When you see the postmark from Ashaway
think of how I stood at this box
waiting for my fingers to unclose.
Know that I walked more slowly away
because my feet needed time to leave
the only man who’s held them,
bundled like doves,
at the start of a day.
Nora Pace writes poetry, essays, and fiction. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Anti-Heroin Chic, The Maynard, Peculiar Journal, Juniper, Cobra Milk, and Barren Magazine. She recently attended the Kettle Pond Writers’ Conference. She lives in Central Falls, Rhode Island, and teaches 8th grade and adult education.