The Letter

This morning I woke up to find a sealed envelope on my bed
with no return address.
Written in calligraphy is my poem and a note from Afra,
my college girlfriend wishing me good luck with my scheduled surgery,
and enclosed is a ticket to Tahiti.
She used to send me a picture postcard every year written in invisible ink.
My wife thought she must be in a loony-bin.
Afra knew I wanted to move to Tahiti because of the freezing winters in Iowa City.
I heard she had 6 kids, and Frank, her husband had become rich.
She must have kept track of my life by reading my family's Facebook.
I breathe deeply and enjoy the moment of being loved.
Here is the poem I wrote for her:

First Touch

Birds perched on her shoulder,
snakes curled in her arms.
She limned the spirit of stones
by their shape, size and heft.

We puzzled over
Asphodel, That Greeny Flower
on the bank of the Iowa River,
green as the hills from Galway to Dublin.

Thunder rumbled.

We ran to a lone phone booth.
Rain gushed down, windows fogged
in an intimacy of flashing lights
and oak-cleaving thunderbolts.

Her fingers inquired, pulling, and pushing,
testing the limits.
Like Helen Keller, her touch
reconnoitered the world of my hand.

Dreaming or awake, all I know now
is whenever it rains, I'm ready to mate.