He sent letters with foreign stamps,
and Chinese symbols and haiku poetry
scribbled on the outside of them.
She’d smell spices and seeds
she’d never tasted, Garam
Cumin and Pomegranate.
Then she’d read breathless between the lines
for the words that evaded her.
She’d begin to doubt herself.
And hunger assailing
she’d brew from his narrative
a story that fed hers.
She never really knew him.
She simply invented.
Copyright with Cathy Leonard 2016