When You Write This Letter

There is no moon and back for us, there is just a love that is
indeed, us carved out like initials and it is ample, cherishable,
enough.  Tell me there is something like a venerable smoke 
between us inheriting our existence with its thick fog-like 
mesh, and we will never really part, vapor offerings as we are. 
When you write this letter, pen it like the stab of a needle, a
hand stitched tattoo with an ink too potent to fade over time
or stretch the seams to the overly barbaric. Be hungry enough
to taste me in your hand muscles bending, stained with slow
and together memory. Tell me this letter isn’t a gift ingrained
in your sarcasm. That this is the actual you kneeling at my 
bedpost declaring, baffled by your own frenzy. That such
untidy and corny love sonnets tumble like the formation of 
mountain out of you and onto the begotten grove of me. 
That within the sloping and curving there we are, feral, 
tender, a newness entwined.

Amanda is a mother, poet and teacher originally from San Antonio. She draws strength and creativity from her Mexican American roots, and from her husband and three daughters. Her poetry and essays have been published by The Latino Book Review, The Front Porch Review, Calyx, Anti-Heroin Chic and The San Antonio Review, among others.  She dreams of being a full time writer and storyteller.