I imagine often I could be happy
every day. I could write to you and
lick the backs of postage stamps and
thank my lucky stars for many things
like electricity, power, heat,
strawberries, summertime in a pasture
on the face of the world, sweet
little walks through the center of the road
when the deer are chewing on the neighbors’
lawns, but mostly my charitable ankles,
which I have heard
are perfect, as they are not cankles
which is, in fact, a sign of someone that
should be less than happy, due to the
aforementioned condition of the ankles,
the c representing the calf, which, doubled
would make two cankles, that is, two shins
melting, collapsing, even, into the foot
or, rather, feet. Wait, how many feet?
Two feet? On two calves? No, four feet,
that is, rather, four feet
on four legs on two calves
(eight feet/eight legs) trudging in
from where? The pasture? Eating strawberries?
No, those were the deer. No, the deer were
eating the lawns. I was eating strawberries
in a pasture alone. No, I was with you.
I was with you, in the pasture, eating strawberries
and you bit in, and juice dribbled down your chin
and I kissed it off. I was kissing you
and it was summer and we were calves
without constellation under our only heaven
and you turned to me and said, first,
I have never loved you and I never will.
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Abigail Raley (she/they) is a writer from Kentucky. She is currently an MFA poetry candidate at the University of Montana.
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image: Ashley Beresch. Check out more of her work on Instagram @ashleyberesch
Rejection Letters 