Letter From an Old Flame

The moments dripped like frozen sap
down rusty pipes and the sky
chipped away like ancient paint from
motel walls. Her sons murdered
puppies and her husband ran
off with a 13-year old cotton-candy twirler

from the county fair. The corn wouldn’t grow
and the floods wiped out the future. She said madness
was her only refuge. She asked how I was doing,
and if I was still married. I carefully resealed the
letter and wrote in
bold across it: Deceased. Return to sender.