Letters From Providence, RI, 1976 by Rebecca Faulkner

Imagine the cake I’ll make if you write me back - vanilla buttercream, frosted golden with strands of my hair.

Letters From Providence, RI, 1976

by Rebecca Faulkner

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I.

Funny you should mention the flour. I swept it from the sidewalk 
after the Pillsbury truck hit the hydrant on South Main, the block 
dusted like a Bavarian village, Roberto shouting up from the bakery 
put your damn shoes on & stop day-dreaming! He gave me a broom 
& dregs of cold coffee. Later I run my finger through filthy flour
lick the tarmac, flecked with egg whites & milk. Imagine the cake 
I’ll make if you write me back - vanilla buttercream, frosted golden 
with strands of my hair. Yes, I am alive on this February morning 
holding the big hands of the world. I’ll leave the window open
in case you write -



II.

Hands above the stove flame for warmth, I load sticky film
check the floor for knives. I think it’s Wednesday. My body 
seethes inside the skirting board. I press glass against my thighs
brush cobwebs from my ribcage, arrange work boots, treads 
smudge hungrily against my torso. Half-finished tuna sandwich
the air pale & thin. My camera captures a mousy girl, hair 
disheveled & cruel, barely alive.  I’m at my worst again. 
Dad stares at my clavicle, squeezes limes in my soda, whispering 
See how light works?  Cannot keep his eyes from the frame
such a long exposure -



III.

In my dream your skin maps routes to the Moshassuck River
clotheslines cajole in an Easter breeze. I know you still love her.
Outrunning grief over the slope of Smith Hill, I lean toward 
the camera while you hesitate, my red shirt unbuttoned. Grip 
the tripod, you watch me bare teeth, my body bulletproof.
Before you left I reapplied lipstick, mauve fingers smearing 
sky. Betrayal in your gait, my cleverness disappearing 
at the summit with clouds that plunder then vanish -