Marianne Shaneen

The Peekaboo Theory

The constants. sun shines over houses that were bombed
in the night. mailman comes each day at same time with
mail for you even though you no longer live here. you are
not a beloved sent to war that I've heard no word of, whose
letter was inside of a blown-up mail shipment bag or who has
not written because he has been killed. perhaps my longing
for your letters is self-indulgent luxury, only possible
because of the absence of war on my soil, writing done in

leisure of wars waged elsewhere

written in invisible ink

unseen here but appearing there