Dear – ,
Thank you so much for the sparkling wine glasses,
what beautiful additions to our cabinet they will make!
Thank you for the darling yellow apron, which curtails
my waistline, which kisses my kneecaps in the kitchen.
Thank you for the cantaloupe, the rounded rhododendron
of fruits. Thank you for unclaimed baggage, for forgotten
bank accounts, for the whittled souvenir badger that peers
over my dashboard. I appreciate the first draft of indigo,
the open bar, the fog machine that aggravated my asthma,
the opportunity to wear red cowboy boots. Thank you for
“Sweet Child of Mine.” Please thank your mother for “Jolene.”
I adore the barking black sky, the crestfallen bundle of balloons.
I can’t wait to attempt the Mississippi recipes, the watercress
cucumber salad, the virgin petticoat punch. Thank you for
the shrillness of the morning, the jar of salt that fosters
superstition, the cautionary tale of breaking bows at a bridal shower.
I hope you know how much the empty bottles mean to me,
the crystal shards of adolescent remembrance and common
enemies; the chalky railroad stones, the radish blossoms.
I appreciate your to-and-fro, your plus-one, the arithmetic
of a waltz, your readiness to share crossword puzzles
in Gorges State Park from the backseat. See you soon –
tell the holes in your coat pocket I said hello, and give my love
to the paper mache volcano, in spite of its refusal to erupt.
Originally from Birmingham, Alabama, Catie Marie Martin is currently a student at Brooklyn Law School in Brooklyn, New York. She received her BA in English from Mississippi State University, where she worked as the poetry editor for the school’s literary magazine, The Streetcar, as well as the managing editor for the student newspaper, The Reflector. Catie Marie’s poetry has previously been published in The Streetcar and in the University of Illinois’s Ninth Letter.
Photo by Dirk Ingo Franke.