A poet previously published in the Bo-Arts series, Anna Aileen See-Jachowski shares another series of poetry with Boshemia. Written in the styling of the letters from Katharine Hepburn to Spencer Tracy, Anna’s poetry is a love story reimagined in a contemporary context. These are love letters 1 & 2 of 6.
all i can write anymore is a letter.
here i languish
in the water that should cleanse me-
another one of your bathtub beauties.
only you are not here to
scrub my pock-marked shoulders, or
take my photograph.
spencer, these september days are hollow,
and the pretend autumn nights are so full
of a yellow lady named (Subject: Re:) luna, who we’ve spoken of before.
(On Wed, Sep 1 2010 at 11:33:14 +0200, < spencer > wrote: “you are more than just my moon, Anna…”)
spencer, the sound of banjos is just like
a smile that twangs like home.
i am only able to sob
when i leave the house,
behind the wheel.
i haven’t let the moon get high enough to howl.
instead i sit here in the bath;
wine, and a single black crayon in hand,
and your records do the wailing;
and i write, and i sweat, and i touch myself.
spencer, my love for you
is so hopelessly passe,
we’d laugh in it’s face,
with full bellies in the kitchen turned gallery space,
if only we could.
we’d cackle away like we used to-
two drunks dancing the tango to the blues,
falling over and into each other,
our lips locked even as we fall.
(your lad’s smile is the skeleton key.)
spencer, you’ve always made me crazy,
like a dali film,
but it used to make us laugh.
now it just cracks me up.
oh, but i do know so many excellent blacksmiths.
my armor is a sloppy patchwork of
three different kinds of precious metals-
one for each of your
“katharine, katharine, katharine…“s.
resources are scarce, so i
scoff at (keeping up) appearance,
and i take what i can get.
spencer, i quit smoking.
i couldn’t taste your mouth in
an american spirit anymore.
so, i press my lips
to your picture,
and try to taste the tobacco and
instead, the flames
month-long swollen thighs.
to come is to come close
to the memory of your
palms on my hips,
rocking my body around you
when, lost in that look in your eyes, (you know the one)
i can no longer move on my own.
orgasms like that
stowed away in your luggage,
along with the little red string
i wore all summer long
and then tucked away in your wörterbuch
on the page marked
spencer, i believe we were the hurricane
predicted for the eastern shore.
we raged underwater,
until i thought i’d drown in whiskey,
and we underwhelmed the suspecting public.
my lungs are still so full of waves.
love, love, (god save our) love,
this town is haunted.
all hallow’s eve draws nearer
and the ghosts,
clad in the clothes you left on the line and
my ratty old thigh highs,
seem to move about
where they please,
spencer, the sun sets earlier now
and in this town littered with stray cats, and
it isn’t safe to walk alone.
whiskey floods the churches and the
gutters and the
when the equinox hits,
we’re all meeting on the river,
past bones wright,
to dance naked under the moon
in your honor, of course.
spencer, what will halloween sound like
in the land of
yellow stars and
spencer, will your costume finally fall
right off, down around your ankles?
will mrs. tracy stay home
to pass out treats to children
while you’re up to your waist in
spencer, i wish you were here,
so we could keep
always, and until death,