Sasha Fletcher


Dear Wendy Dear Becky Dear Lisa
Dear Liza climb on top of the roof and
using a megaphone for a megaphone
they call out Dear Gloria Dear Madeline
Dear Siobhan Dear Ethel Dear Eloise
we are going to have us an event
and so everyone gathers decisively in the yard
which is basically a clearing
that got cleared by setting fire to that which was unwanted
in this case the absence of a yard
and they play a game of shirts v. skins
in which one group takes off their shirts
and the other takes off their skins
and they have themselves a knife fight
which is what happens
when you braid your hair so tight your eyes
smell like knives
in that they smell alluring
and will fucking cut you. Eventually a winner is declared
and everyone eats a pile of pizza and the shirts
put on some skins and the skins put on some shirts
and they all sit around
and shoot the shit.
Hey they say Isn’t this just the best? And some of them agree
that this is indeed just the best but the thing about sarcasm
is it doesn’t translate well to the page and some of the others
they just cut themselves down right there
because who doesn’t like a little attention now and then
which is a joke, let me tell you. Let me look you in the eyes
and tell you a joke. Once upon a time
there were two people struck directly in the chest with lightning
that kept hitting back and forth and back and forth
until their insides were nothing more than vapor
and they grew old like that and they died like that
and they never had kids like that and they never said I love you like that
and they never fucked like that and at no point ever did they have a nice dinner
or shove a gun down a mouth and say Suck this then asshole
or some other kind of tender moment
like when you’re drunk at a bar and they just grab your hand
like this is the thing that will bring us all happiness and for once
we can just grab hold of each other and navigate the snow banks
into the taco store and eat the tacos with our mouths
which can’t stop smiling and why would they?
Isn’t this enough? I know that it isn’t, I know there’s supposed to be more
but for once can we just pretend that this,
right here, is enough? Because I could gut you all here and now
I am just so happy and satisfied, I swear to God, said Eloise, crying, gently,
looking around at all of her friends who had just died laughing.


Sasha Fletcher is author of the novella When All Our Days Are Numbered Marching Bands Will Fill the Streets & We Will Not Hear Them Because We Will Be Upstairs in the Clouds (mud luscious press, 2010) and several chapbooks of poetry including the forthcoming dear gloria, dear madeline, dear siobhan, dear ethel, dear eloise, dear wendy, dear becky, dear lisa, dear liza, dear michelle, dear tamika, dear tanya, tonight (Big Lucks Books, 2014). With Leigh Stein, he runs The Book Report reading series.
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