The Un-Game

Dear Janice,

I haven’t heard from you in a while, and I worry my last letter offended you.  If so: apologies.  It’s hard for me to tell, sometimes, when I should staple back my tongue.   Your choices are your own.  God knows my adolescence wasn’t the picture of propriety.  (And look how well I turned out.  Ha!)

As for your poem.   What a strange, lovely opening.   “You used to pet the/soft fur that grew on the tips/ of my ears.  Pleasure in the seat of my belly/ as you held me, mother.”  I wonder if you might consider adding one more verse.  As it is, it’s a bit difficult to tell exactly what happens after the mother wanders into the snow.   Overall though, fine work.

Best,

Ms. F