Letter from —

Autumn mourns the leaves shaking from green to yellow. They eat special cut lamb shanks and drink fizzy red martinis in the bathtub. The commentator’s mouth dips to the right no matter which political candidate she is discussing. We laugh because we want to cry. It is understood that love is fragile.

Just this summer I peered through cold glass at the Superdome and wondered. I drank an iced coffee in the street and my shirt was wet as a pickle. The women in Chico’s talked me out of buying Spanx and asked my age. New Orleans: city of survivors where the dead are buried with the living. They whisper and wail.

We make plans for winter but I no longer practice anticipation. I want to eat green chile stew and grits every day. We pass too much red wine back and forth and wake at four a.m. I can’t watch the final scene of the movie about the war where the little boy is hanged. The secret heart inside the heart you show is always changing.

October in England is sun and rain and hamsters running in cages all through the night like the song.Our table at the Indian restaurant was like a bunk bed, new faces appearing to hand hot dough over the ladder. I am lost on the bus, everywhere everywhere where here?

            I ask questions that have no answers but somehow alight – please alight! – in the right place.