Dear ——,
Last night, my mother asked me if
I’ll miss it: this New Hampshire town, its few
unhip, unfamous restaurants peripheral
to a town green unmown, untended to,
all overgrown with weeds and thistle fluff,
where apples fall and find no funeral.
My reflex was to say my stay was brief,
just three years, insufficient time to glue
oneself to one’s environment. The stiff,
crushed turtle in my driveway last night drew
no tear—I didn’t know him—but he left
a bigger bloodstain than seemed possible . . .
It lasted just a blink, and yet I lived
in this place longer than I lived with you.
