Dear Vincent, Everyone is one with the birds except for me.

Dear Vincent,

Everyone is one with the birds except for me.

Inside

my

recycling box

remnants of coconut cream

rot along the ridges

of the can.

I have a saying that goes, “When I ask for mercy, mercy comes.”

And

if mercy isn’t here yet,

then,

you just have to keep waiting.

Mercy can be a poem,

a sandwich plus a nap,

or,

a translation contract about a sexologist

or annual furnace maintenance,

both reasonably effective at

alleviating the guilt of

not being much of a human, and

not writing something magnificent about

dying in a wishing well,

or squirrels,

or attachment trauma,

or some other redeeming topic.

Or

mercy can be a row of toddlers flailing across the sidewalk in their multi-coloured marshmallow snowsuits as they all barely grasp the same leash.

Or the flat vibrant faces of real estate agents on cardboard, their teeth impossibly long and impossibly white,

and their hair impossibly large.

Or when one of those weird blow up snowman or Santa lawn ornaments deflates and lies dead across the snow.

Or,

if mercy isn’t here yet,

then,

you just have to keep waiting.

Love, Erica.

Send your letters to Vincent and/or Erica to ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com.

What is the missing piece that stops you from real life?


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Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
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