Eighth letter
published July
16, 2001
written by Daniel Wolff / New York
illustrated by Vasus
Das / New York
Dearest Frankie:
Weren’t you the one who said we can’t begin
again?
If you leave, the lies lives on, unchallenged.
I work with them;
I know.
They bet on the fact that we’re all too damaged
to fight.
And if you run to the country
(which is what?) and it cures
(which it can’t), then
where would you be?
And what’s the bible for, Frankie? How can that help?
Late last night, I found myself
walking home through the park,
and, in the shadows
by the lake (which is as close as the city comes to dark),
I saw a couple making love.
It wasn’t Eden, but it wasn’t rape. It was a man
and a woman. And if there’s a god above,
doesn’t he see this as an act of almost pure bravery,
of prayer?
People making shelter out of thin air.
What we made, Frankie, was the same.
And if that’s over -- if that’s gone up in some blinding light --
well, I need to stay here. In the city.
In the hollow of what used to be.
Because ... because what else do we have to build on?
And because, if I stay, at least I remain
yours
JOHN
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Eighth letter