By Linda Wojtowick
And all because I wouldn’t let her go.
This was it: the one thing you knew. But consider now,
with your cooled heat: what if your picture is wrong?
What if she stayed with me, eyes bursting, like a crazy saint.
Shake, you’ll tell yourself. Bloody frog.
I hate to end the game. But because it’s your birthday,
I’ll tell you the truth. Whatever she did, all those years,
she did because she loved me. It’s more difficult
than thinking she screamed all day in her cup,
to the gods of whatever, to the trains, to the filthy grass.
You won’t understand. You’re profane.
From the private letters of [subject].
Postmark from Truth or Consequences, New Mexico 1976.
Sent by patient or former friend of [subject].
Linda Wojtowick grew up in Montana. She now lives in Portland, Oregon, where she can indulge her cinematic obsessions without restraint. She is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, and her work has most recently appeared in Noble/Gas Quarterly, Visitant, Calamus Journal, Sooth Swarm, Abramelin, Occulum, and Riggwelter Press. Find her on Facebook, Instagram, & Twitter at @LindaWojtowick.