"Elegy for the Personal Letter" by Allison Joseph
I miss the rumpled coreners of correspondence,the ink blots and crossouts that show
someone lives on the other end, a person
whose hand makes errors, leaves traces.
I miss fine stationary, its raised elegant
lettering prominent on creamy shades of ivory
or pearl grey. I even miss hasty notes
dashed off on notebook paper, edges
ragged as their scribbled messages-
can't write much now-thinking of you.
When letters come now, they are formatted
by some distant computer, addressed
to Occupant or To family living at-
meager greetings at best,
salutations made by committee.
Among the glossy catalogues
and one time only offers
the bills and invoices,
letters arrive so rarely now that I drop
all other mail to the floor when
an envelope arrives and the handwriting
is actual handwriting, the return address
somewhere I can locate on any map.
So seldom is it that letters come
That I stop everything else
to identify the scrawl that has come this far-
the twist and the whirl of the letters,
the loops of the numerals. I open
those envelopes first, forgetting
the claim of any other mail,
hoping for news I could not read
in any other way but this.
