Return Address

Return AddressThe return address gives me pause.
It’s not the name, not the street number
Not the color of the Sharpie ink.
I’d forgotten the lean of your
Hand. That is,
I didn’t forget it. I’d have
Known it was from you
Regardless of what you’d
Written and why? I can’t recall
Much of anything you sent me
Before, except a letter or two
A postcard
And then

I realize
It’s not the handwriting making me
Tremble. It’s the
Idea of you
Writing my name
Looking for the address,
And the time before that, when you

Gathered the postage, the
Envelope the
Guts of the package
It’s all that
That time-space in which
We were alone together again
Armored Charles and
Joan of Arc
Locked in a battle
Of wondering
Where did the years go and
Why have we waited.

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