A Letter in the Palm of November
Art by Ashley Mintz (2026)
Hello darling. Have I mentioned? Whenever
I write you, I think it a shame
we never found you a nickname. Francis
makes you sound like an old man,
no offense. And I call the little one (well, little
to us) anything: baby or crocus or snickerdoodle
in the fall. But I don’t know
what color your eyes are (blue? green?)
so mermaid and gator and jam
jar are off the table. I guess
you never had a table
in the first place really—just that plot
of green-smelling soil in the backyard,
and lilies white in the rain in November, sorry,
I’m doing good, really. Oh, get this, Fran (no
we can’t use that): I’m listening
to jazz again (maybe I’m the old
man?) and isn’t it strange
how the brass sort of breaks
itself into pieces, fading away into
ghosts (ha!) and
wailing? I couldn’t tell you anything
about minor pentatonics or chromatic passing tones
but at least the sounds are scratched out somewhere
because even though I have the entire world
ready and blinking, nothing stays
still long enough to taste (throat
versus basket) and
I worry—are you sad that I don’t tell my friends
you exist(ed)? Maybe I’m selfish, to let myself off
so easy (not much of a big sister, huh?). But the murk
of a decade makes me protective. They don’t
deserve you, yet (ever). (Would it be okay
if you are only ever ours?).
As I was saying . . . basically, these days pass like
train cars, and I can’t decide how I feel or
how I want to feel, so lately
I let an hour of Summer Rooftop Vibes Jazzy
Deep & Soulful Mix choose instead—and it’s better
than silence. Or maybe it’s drinking a bottle
full of green liquid: if you don’t expect anything,
it’s not that bad, or maybe
I just can’t tell what’s beautiful yet.
Because for a while I thought it was big and feathered
hats or an old-looking book or an older-
looking me or nothing, and
now, I’m not sure. But I am trying, right?
I haven’t covered my mirror yet
and I drink coffee with my neighbor on my stone
porch on Fridays. And I’d like to think you’d like it here
though I guess I can only
dream.
xx, and all that. I’ll leave
an earbud out for you, no worries.
