Doves come for love, used things, hoping to allude on a tar-dark night to the topography of your mouth: tongue, holes, eat and blow are words I ink on fraying wings of paper I love to over-fold like hard sharp origami. Your name in my mouth can solute, you know, just as the body of this letter in my teeth, all disassembled, lodging one along another until I sing your love letter and sink; and to think, your molasses-inks letter right there, over coffee, where, in the next dimension, you will storm like an infection.

Molly Gaudry


at the door, for I’m your color, your car, I wanted to say last spring when the unfixable radio went mint-wild and we who work this rough world worried over what little will eat lime; how to catalog the lifetime of the Swedish forest water plant when her full bright chartreuse leaves are caught in last night’s ice. You, with your million morning dreams of green storms, and me, my hands banging tax calculations: we noticed her cross mechanic love and how generations of ivy in that beautiful light, that envelope of shades that looks like new night light, would drive me back to that place of furnace and rains, where everything was dust, in wind. 

Molly Gaudry

Used to be 
I could watch a ballgame 
Without being blinkered
by come ons about hard-ons 
in a miracle pill  
without being asked to imagine 
the boners of middle aged men
whose bored, sneering wives 
used to be their own business
and not my 8-yr old’s:
“What’s wrong with him, Mommy?” 

Stacy Esch