The Letter T
Mary Winters
My favorite letter’s everywhere.
Fighting and spitting
in the middle of my last name.
Thrice in a sign, rushing forward:
“We are Authorized to Send
Packages to Prison.”
Reaching as far as torn to shreds.
Someday my life will be trenchant,
force and vigor front to back.
Right now, an endless slo-
ping belt takes up the room.
A treadmill with routine me
right in the center of it.
A Texas Ranger keeping order,
tying my shoes in a triple knot.
A letter in the shape of the gallows.
Thought bolsters me on either end.
Think of the ones you love. Think rich.
I thought I would cry out.
I think it’s only fair.
I thought myself into a terror.
Thumbtacks stuck in my soles.
Stuck with my job of calling collect.
Tied down so hard and so tight
-- what makes me tick?
Your phone tied up for an hour.
The accident tied up traffic.
Curing a tic: I see the trap right away.
The betraying. The trumpery.
The psychic peeking over the transom.
Odd my knack for tu quoque: a retort
accusing an accuser of a similar offense.
When it’s time I’ll twist flowers in my hair.
Twist off a dead branch.
Twist my mouth into a smile.
