With Orthography and Insufficient Postage
Dearest—
Thank you for teaching me all those German words for grief, making sure that I pronounced each one correctly. It was as though you knew that someone had just asked me to sit beside her and hold her as she drank the hemlock (it wasn’t a question that could be answered with a yes or a no, or even a question at all.) But if I say Rumpelstiltskin’s name three times, he has to relinquish his hold on my throat—doesn’t he? The only alphabet I can remember how to write is Greek, but the German words don’t transliterate properly. I tried to put an umlaut over an eta and it just made the most sorrowful face. It was patient of you to wait while I helped my aunts serve the meal at the ruined estate. Remember when I forbade you to call me by their nickname for me? Three letters that mean uncertainty, three letters that mean a knobby, buried thing. Will you humor me with a slanted truth? Call me by the letters that mean worthy, or call me
your,
Hope
the world has gotten over us
the sun stretches itself out
in empty cafes
like an ex
who doesn’t recognize your number
adolescent trees widen
the cracks in the blacktop
growing up around our interruptions
our feeble architecture
happily tenanted
the bark of beeches
expands, erasing
each generation’s carved initials,
routine, the way I wash my dishes
Amanda Hope lives in eastern Massachusetts with her partner and cats. A graduate of Colgate University and Simmons College, she works as a librarian. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Salamander, The Lily Poetry Review, The Hellebore, Mason Street Review, and more. Her chapbook, The Museum of Resentments, was published by Paper Nautilus in 2020. You can find more information about her work at her website,http://www.amandahope.net.