Letter to Yvonne

Anne Manuel, University of California, Davis

hi,
I wanted to write you a
friendly message. this is it.
unfortunately it turned into
a stinking poem. when a writing
turns into a poem, I feel
guilty for...commercializing
experience. never mind
about that. anyway, consider this
not a poem, but a message to you
okay?

(last night, as I walked out
of my workplace, an umbrella to
block my face, KCRA amongst other newsvans
mob me for some answers. tomorrow, the
news of an inmate's suicide
hits papers.)

Dear Yvonne,
there's no particular reason
for this email. just wanted to say
hi and see if this is still a working
email address. I don't know if
your in Davis during this quarter.
I just wanted to say thank you
for your support. sorry I didn't
follow through on the Prof
McPhearson class. My heart lacked
desire for her guidance.
she's not my type. so I'm taking
critical theory instead.

today,
just like the beginning of winter
quarter, someone had committed
suicide. that's uncanny.
people around the death must
act as if it doesn't smell.
but heaven knows, the scent of
(this person's) death is smeared on walls..
it's yellow, brown, bile green.
that died (dyed?) together.
it's the smell of wet shirt
kicked under a washer.
it's a sleeping cat. bundled up.
the smell of moisture in the pitfalls
of the kitty's groin.
but in it's entirety, the smell of
death is this wall. four sided
white silent, in whose sharp
corners accumulate a
heaviness that hurts. like hair
parted, pulled taut. all these
for death! hustled together in an
ironic serenity. the stem of a
storm's leaf, after dampness
has settled in.

fresh death is fresh flowers.
they both leave...something.
a sort of scent. or is it a scent
assortment? all indiscernible after
a while. even the ones in the room,
left behind. walk out eventually,
one by one. a room becomes sun rayed.
then afternoon decays into a cooling moon
suspended inside a window's belly.
meanwhile the moon press it's nose to
the glass. to the room abandoned.
the scent of which is
a "part fuck you."

it's funny, the playful ways
to bury fresh death.
as if the scent is embarrassing.
as if the scent could
stain our clothes.
so we wear in other ways.
something borrowed. some young
coconut, meat spooned out. we
fold inside. knee to chest. chin to
torso, hands together. praying
mantis. in the name
of the father. of the son,
and of the holy
spirit.

Amen. Yvonne, tonight death is
a guest inside my house. I
took him home after being
misbegotten. tomorrow when
the news hits, I would have
made friends whith him already. but
tonight his limbs cup my shoulder,
heavy and bony in it's nothingness. no,
that's wrong. in his everything-ness,
he's heavy. even that doesn't
make sense. he's black, or the color of...
cloudy syrup. a mixture of...something
with a juicy pulp inside.
but gentle. loving man, who won't
hurt a fly. now he
tells me to look at him. the
shape of his body. how grainy despite.
the skin of his "process."
the mole that means something.
even the perpetual silence wedged
between his fingernails.

jesus christ.
after all these years, I still
die and die and die.
when he kills me in his sleep.