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by REBECCA FOSTER
I had conversations with two men I have not met.
the first is innocuous, encouraged by my cousin's desire to mark out paths between
the men and
women in his world. I will see my cousin this weekend—he imagines at least one line-of-vision
in common between myself and this man, a relative from his other half, and so I make my
introduction, he does the same, and I look up the terms "junk bond" and "hedge fund."
I can tell my cousin that
maybe we will compare notes and meet next week, maybe we will meet. I am scheduled to work
on my resume and have been carrying around a folded copy of the first edition for a week. the ink
has worn off on the thirds that touch so everything is repeated on top of something else. the
letters are all on top of each other. I think that I need to put something else on paper first.
the second conversation is a fan letter. I am so moved by a writer's moment of sadness
and
I need to tell him. I begin to believe that you can recognize a person's posture from their words,
from the shape of the syllables and the nods of sentences, and so I look for him
on the train the next day.
tomorrow, I have to take another train.ûI will be going to a birthday party for my grandfather
who is becoming eighty-years-old. there will be others traveling alone along the way. I might
wonder on the lives of a few of them. and maybe we will meet, maybe I will uncover
the language filling one broad-unused space between two others.
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