Caitlin Elizabeth Thomson is a Canadian currently in Brooklyn, New York.
Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in the Hart House Review, Imago, Short,
Fast and Deadly, The Toronto Quarterly, Neon, The Lineup, and the anthology
Killer Verse. Her first collection of poems The Victims Of Ted Bundy: Washington
is forthcoming this spring from Jeanne Duval Editions.

Other Lover's Letters

Dear Alexander, a reminder
to turn the stove off
should not be necessary.

Dearest James, the West Coast
has your tongue,
I hear it when you say roof;
am pulled across the country by it,
the not quite home of it.

Katrina, we have talked for some time
now about the light and I must say
that I find the flicker of you appealing.

Dear Jasper, teasing a sleeping girl
is not advised.

Trevor, I will roast potatoes
and brown garlic, steam corn,
add chicken. Please bring wine.

Dear Robert, the trees
in the orchard are struggling.
A blight afflicts them; apple trees
have become old men overnight.
I keep feeding their roots, tenderly
warming the soil.

Evan, that soft brow of yours,
an unknown trouble.

Susan, this was a simple bargain,
two plums for keys. Yet even after
the juice has trickled down
your lips, I find myself knocking
on strangers' doors.


Can I share with you this burden
of bounty, gift you a whole
pie, the spark of cinnamon, snap
of apple unpeeled? Happiness,

can be an uncomfortable thing.
All those sofas in the cool breeze
of beach, this space for thought;
seed or just a field of ghosts?

Did you lose to it? The joy of woods,
an elk looming, overtaking
the path in front of you.


To arrive at my destination,
then wake up fully dressed,
mouth tingling of toothpaste,
stretch arms, lecture
about roman urns. To know
these things, two hours
into a broken spined book.
Feel that the future will
involve more then caffeine,
scratches in veneer.
Anticipate unprinted
calendar years. New lives
with thieves or horses
planned for, packing a bag
for the beach. I want to attend
the masquerade,
throw my own 30th birthday party
before penciling the time
into the agenda's calming
white boxes. I always prepared
for loneliness, bought the right
clothes, small loaves of bread,
vacuumed simplicity. Every bruise,
a pink teacup chip, a lazy bill
my own to claim
and then repair. Unplanned
events two flights down. I
try to remember the umbrella,
pepper spray, chap stick,
reassurance for every occasion.


The end of days
curve in
from the bitter and the sweet
the narrow fog drifting path
the plunk of logs in water
Our cabin cradled in the valley
wooden beams up and in and out
varnish shining when it rains
The hammock beyond repair as you attempt
to restring it by lantern light
when I buy a new one you cough
nothing new is good enough
We press the cider that afternoon
fermenting apples staining our jeans
cedar chips and sweet
scent the air
These are our days now
in the hush and the lull

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