Dear Saskia

Dearest Sasha,

It's nearing autumn here with record highs.
Is it searing in Boston? Hope this letter finds
your first semester fine while I'm out of town...
You'd love Taiwan, surrounded by walls of mountains,
their peaks sealed and shielded by foggy clouds.
Beneath this ceiling yields the scene a reeling feel
of some giant's house.

So... before I left, you said
I should keep your kid name, with everything it meant.
But then in your embrace, I felt you prepped to shed...

And I'd reflect inside withering amber eyes--
your pupil's pupal fly, a pet petrified--
with you raving over how he's getting you
staying kosher. Though, you know, I would have too...

And I sniffled daily when you skipped a grade.
One bus seat up you moved, letting rippled braids
caress, sun-streaked and loose, a wet-cheeked papoose
sadly weaned from you...

Whom I knew I'd lose the day,
you flew enraged and shooed them from their game;
untied this "tetherboy", soothing in your lecture voice.
Oh but Sasha, if anarchy reigns,
then no one lives when narcing to the aides,
who shrug when thus annoyed, yawning, "Boys will beat boys..."

Well Sasha... okay, you saw the cuts.
But though my jaw was stuck, so now I talk Canuck,
there's been plenty days I've really been through worse.
Anyway, I'm feeling healed. Still, hugging hurts...

And Sasha, I know you'll have them all,
while if I last the fall playing possum
is a toss-up. But where some haemophile
might bleed the Nile to nausea,
I can wash up, and hope the bastards croak,
on rat turds choked.

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