Dear Mr. T
Has the shards of your lost promises
touched you? They must cut
the pads of your fingertips,
on the hand you used
to shake mine. Let it bleed
onto the white tablecloth
at the state dinner. The soup
is terrible, but you’re smiling.
The bulbs in the chandelier fritzes.
Somewhere a line of wire is fraying
like my faith. The man
in the black suit presses his ear
at the feedback. Outside
snow pelts the streets. Laughter
bubbles over, rows of white teeth
glimpsed as I pass around a tray
of flutes. I pause, sliding this letter
under your plate, and the black ink
congeals like oil gathering
at the tip of a long straw. Your eyes
are bluer than I remembered.
I unbend, uncork a bottle of white wine,
pour. It shimmers and catches the light.
You call for a toast as silence falls
while the clock strikes the hour. You make
a joke and it feeds the hungry
crowd. I slip out before the applause
peaks and falls away. This
is not my only gift. The next one
will move you, I promise.
Christine Fojas is a Filipino-Canadian hailing from Las Piñas City and currently living in Metro Vancouver. She has a BA in Comparative Literature from University of the Philippines and works as a library technician at Douglas College. A list of her publications can be found at her website. She is also on Twitter as @chrisfojas.
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