print previewback SUSAN AIZENBERG
Now That You’re Nowhere
anyone on earth can find you,
I find you here,
in age-softened envelopes
postmarked Par Avion,
San Francisco, 1959,
hidden at the back
of my mother’s closet
beneath stacks of frayed
linens. Goddess, you write,
I was stunned to find
you’d changed the locks.
Now that you’re nothing
but black ink, your familiar
hand elegant, precise,
at first, as printer’s type,
then falling apart,
as you did, toward the end
of each letter, growing
larger, loopy, spilling down
the pages, you’re these words
I shouldn’t read, but do:
you’re hungry and ill,
casino, motel. You’re jail.
You’re poison in the glove box,
shirts and ties she took.
You’re sorrow and sorry.
You’re rage. I never knew,
you write, you hated me so much
you couldn’t bear to leave
me even my razor. Please don’t
write me anymore about my
children. Check soon. 
After Reading the News This Morning, I Turn to the
Curses of My Ancestors: A Found Poem
Eleanor
Remembers Her Soldier
Now That You’re
Nowhere