Poetry |

“A Letter to Lucie About Lucie”

She gave it with her living hand to me a copy of / The Master Letters with her living hand to me / Thick

with a thickness they I couldn’t say     how many re- / printings later new     copies have lost     the

paper / They print them on is thinner now but it itself was new / She gave it to me     new she must

have had it since / The book was new to her she must have     kept it in her castle / She signed it in

the Little Castle that was where we were     / For twenty years     she must have kept it in her castle for

/ Twenty years Master I can’t say     how long you’d lived there / Before I for a single afternoon came

where are you / To ask     but I think now the castle followed you / And now you’ve taken the castle

with you     to wherever you’ve gone / And must have followed you before     she must have kept /

The book for twenty years before     she with her living hand / Gave it to me a paperback     still

glossy with / The printing date 4/97 still     glossy beneath / The gloss or Master do     they print

on top of the gloss / As we are all who walk on Earth are printed on the gloss / And liable to smudge

and disappear if touched / I ask you where are you to ask I might have called you after / I heard     but

let me tell you first we were then under- / ground waiting for a train my daughter and me waiting for

/ An A or D to ride from barely Harlem almost / To 14th Street     and then to take an L     or walk

from there / To Union Square but now I’ve talked     beyond the bounds / Of the story I was going

to tell you     as a spirit talks / Beyond the bounds     of the story of a body     Master / I heard a

woman go     under the train     the sound it must / Have been her body     getting crushed but the

sound sound- / ed like     a piece of paper     torn quickly the louder sound / Was voices diving after

it     that was the sound / I turned to     Master then I turned my daughter’s face away / I might have

called you after     I might have said It sounded / Like paper Master where are you to ask     do you know

now to / Whom she was Master     the woman beneath the train / She must have kept that     copy in

the little     castle for / Waiting for not for me     but who would be there when / The time came for

her love to cross     the bridge from hand to hand / The book would for an instant make as it was

given / To who would be there was     when she with her living hand / Took the book down

from the shelf     beside the sprig of heather / From the Brontës’ moors     and handed it to me

a sprig that looked / Alive still     of green heather     from across the sea

Contributor
Shane McCrae

Shane McCrae’s most recent books are The Gilded Auction Block (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2018) and In the Language of My Captor (Wesleyan University Press, 2017), which won the 2018 Anisfield-Wolf Prize for Poetry, and was a finalist for the National Book Award, the Los Angeles Times Book Prize, and the William Carlos Williams Award. He has received a Lannan Literary Award, a Whiting Writer’s Award, and a fellowship from the NEA. He is the Poetry Editor at Image, teaches at Columbia University, and lives in New York City.

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