I.

I don’t remember the last time that we got mail,

or which stained cot or shithole that I was in

when I opened it

and read about your summer days sun bathing

in your new 4th of July two-piece out at the lake

with Eric and Tori. Or about how softly your

mother cried, lifting and dabbing behind her glasses

with a wadded up tissue, while helping you pick

out new linens for your hour-and-a-half away

dorm room bed.

But now I sift through this pile of white and

mixed colored letters, moving...