May 2004 / Volume Five / Issue Two
C. L. Bledsoe
Letter To My Sister    

He hits you.

Believe me I know
how much you think youíll miss him,

because youíve got yourself convinced
that it makes you

special; that heís singled you out
as his one and only

victim, and thereís a certain sense
of intimacy in that. I guess you think

that if you left, his fists would atrophy from lack of use;
he would die alone,

and all of that.
You think itís love.

But I have to tell you something.
I saw him at a bar the other night.

He was with a blonde, she looked 22,
maybe younger. She said something and I turned.

He had his fingers curled into a fist.
And she was crying.