You’re not a poet by profession, not even by preference
you were born from a poem, and became one not by luck of the womb
(this is about my good friend Kaylee)
I want to write love poems that sound like you and less like myself
I had a nice morning in the balcony and then went to an award ceremony at my school where the beautiful Sandra Cisneros was the guest speaker. When she was asked how she looks so good at 59 she answered “first, I’m Mexican” and that she doesn’t drink “that much.” That she wears big sun hats and writes poetry.
(a death row inmate’s letter to a member of the jury that sentenced her)
my lawyer urged me to write this but im sure my lawyer only wants to make money off me and my case and the victims and my crazy. he said to write about myself but i’ve been in jail ten years so myself is three meals a day, five haircuts a year, zero medical care ever. but you should know that already, shouldnt you? i started wearing the smallest size of underwear available seven years ago. i think about taxpayer money a lot. did the guys i killed paid them like the outstanding citizens they werent? shouldnt you know that, too? does their families’ money keep me fed? get me tiny panties? i remember having to learn the names of the people i had killed. i had to memorize their kids’ names, their families’ faces. i learned their sisters’ and mothers’ favorite shade of lipstick. i saw them at the trials a lot. i wonder if i would bother wearing lipstick if my brother had been murdered. if i would have killed my brother. but the worst part about the court dates wasnt the relatives wearing make up. it was when they looked a lot like their recently murdered relative. i never had a family but i have daughters and granddaughters. none of them have long hair. i bet they wear a smaller size of underwear than me. half of the little ones dont know my name. a friend wrote to me to say she ran into them at the grocery store and swore their hair is the same shade of blonde as mine. i wonder if my daughters will let them dye it. if they would wear lipstick if their uncle had been murdered. i only ever owned two tubes of lipstick before getting sentenced, and that’s all i have to say about myself.
Messages left in Nolan’s voicemail.
From Melia, 3:37pm: That cookie-cutter fuckboy that won’t divorce your girlfriend came by the restaurant again. He asked for you. I’m runnin out of excuses, Nolan. We also ran out of plant food, but I doubt any of them will green without Adia here to talk to them.
From Soleila, 5:06pm: Hey, so, Eva couldn’t pick me up cause of some bullshit trust fund baby excuse and I ended up telling Adia’s story to a taxi cab driver who only nodded a lot and squinted his eyes when he looked at me through the rearview mirror. He thought it was an exhausting story, told me love that strong tends to be so. I miss her so much. Don’t you, too, Noles? Anyway, do you need me to pick anything up before I clock in?
a rejuvenating week coming to an end today (but this year is still our year)
I’ve had a long day but it’s okay
These fake plants made me think of all the emails I’ve written in the past few days.