Letter to Jane from Northern California by Kate Garklavs

Dear J: I write from an Automat where I sit
beside an unfinished sandwich, ham salad.
Kidding! Sandwiches don’t exist
in the 21st century, much as weathervanes,
blood pressure and good intentions are obsolete.
Recently I revert to the glass promises
of yesteryear: to sip tea in the atrium
when the sky inflates with violence;
to rediscover the porn stash
on the receding bank of the Connecticut;
to live out yearbook prophecies,

uphold the glittered, misspelled letter of the law.
Your abs look good through the internet
and three nostalgic filters. How
are your poses? Your nerves?
Spellcheck changes finance to fiancée.
My inbox promises cheap prenatal
suppplements. I am not old
or ready. If you know nothing

about tattoos for women, know this:
that they are like the skin afflictions
of any other land mammal; that they carry
or not unspoken significance to the bearer;
that they, like leeches or human love, do not deplete
in a vacuum. Next year is my age of reason;
I’ll put you down for guacamole and beer.

 

Kate Garklavs is a writer and editor living in San Francisco. Her work has previously appeared in Tammy and theTusculum Review.