Letter to E. from the Marion National Cemetery
Dear. E., Last night, I slept in an Indiana thicket next to my Indiana grandmother’s grave.
The moon’s grin was crescent. Her light, lurid. She spilled quicksilver on cardinals who
turned their red feathers blue with rancid blackberry juice. I wish you could have seen it.
I would have taken a picture but I can’t afford a camera. Words are cheaper. Meatier.
Higher in protein. My best attempts to confess my sins. To be honest, truth is relative
to metaphor. Drunk cousins who regret that the only time they get together anymore
is at family funerals. Later, the photos are irrefutable evidence. They prove kinship
with facts stripped of all context. Moments should never be preserved like berries.
Never artificially sweetened to make stale, burnt bread easier to swallow. Never stuffed
into jars to forever leave sticky circles in the back of the overstuffed fridges
grandmothers always have. If you outlive me, when you outlive me, use these
for my eulogy. A lasting peace seems possible if I die knowing no one had to speak
for me. I am sorry for any bitterness. I am sorry I ran out of jam and jelly.
Use this epitaph: My words never gave anyone any cavities.—Will
Letter to E. from This is the Place Monument
Dear E., It’s another cave tonight for me. A kitless cougar to cuddle.
I promise I won’t cheat even if it is legal here. That’s the thing about law
and morality: better to listen to mountains with lions. Vigilante missionaries
chased me up Emigration Canyon. Brigham Young’s bronze likeness
still insists that this is the place even if Shoshones already made this place
holy land. I can see Great Salt Lake shine like the Sea of Galilee
beyond the nine-foot thick temple walls and Chevron refinery smog.
I’ll be the Messiah when they finish turning water into concrete. Fish will
already be caught and freeze dried. Loaves will be rendered gluten free
through random acts of commonplace generosity. I’ll be hungry giving it
all away. But I’m hungry before I have it, too. Mormon crickets, they called
”locusts” for effect, learned this the hard way. They were, by the laws
of taxonomy, katy dids. They tried to eat early settlers out of alfalfa, wheat,
barley, and all of Utah. The lesson: you should never let science ruin
a good story. If the cougar gets too mean or I get too cold, I’ll find the
missionaries. I’ll show them. I’ll show them I have no living room to offer
them. No time, no warmth, no state but patience. Patience, as you’ve always said,
is the only place that remains kind to exiles. Wait for me there. —Will