Katherine DeBlassie

Letter from Brooklyn

I’m keeping your book—The Russian, Mayakovsky—
I think we should just write letters
for next 10 years before we meet in Kyoto.
Lots of boundaries, no abnormal guilt—

not altogether unlike friendship. I’ve been listening
to the CD you left me. I find myself silently singing it.
It’s a compendium of heartbreaking work—
best listened to with earphones, while thinking of genocide

and other such stuff. The Aphex Twin song
(Alberto Balsam), in certain movements articulates a hope,
in a way that words can’t. In the Dominican Republic,
it felt like you followed me, Paloma (a different version) played

on the bus and your name was everywhere . . .
the name of a supermarket? I wanted to call.
Instead I swam swam swam (almost to Cuba).
I’m becoming unhinged and just wanted to write, no drama,

no threat of violence, a quiet reformation,
the most meaningless revolution leaves me wanting
to end up on your stoop, that you might
let me in to sleep. I know you’re paralyzed,

predisposed towards the existential and fail
to reconcile the differences.
What makes you think everyone else isn’t?
I’ll be in Albuquerque when you’re there, briefly.

Brooklyn’s warm this summer,
I’m living with my brother & his roommate.
I sleep on the green couch in the living room.
I’m gone most times with two jobs and friends.

I’ve cut my hair off. All off. Something akin to “a bored housewife”—
to quote my brother after he asked if I was going to kill myself.
I walk across the bridges, of course
the Brooklyn, but the Manhattan has something,

the industrial blue, the subway cars tearing
by me as I walk, the used, the un-swooned sister of bridges.
I’m going send you something before I leave.
I’m sorry I treat you poorly. Like in the poem you sent,

it’s the "little by little" part.
I don't know when I'll write again. I still have my stuff
at your place. Here's my address, just in case:
230 14th St. Brooklyn, NY 11215.