Dear Albert, I’m writing because I hoped you could shed some light on my feeling of lightlessness. I saw a glint in your eye when we crossed paths the other day and I thought you’d have something to say. Dear Marilyn, You have the light on inside you already — all 10,000 lumens — and are standing by the switch. Dear Albert, The light that shines on me comes from the flash of cameras and other mirrors. I was looking for something less ephemeral, the kind of light that could power a star from one end of the galaxy to the other. Dear Marilyn, I wish I had your external glow. All my light happens in synapses. I can barely match two socks. And nobody wants to take my picture. * * * Dear Albert, Have you noticed? When they photograph me I am always alone — riding some foamy wave or biting an apple. In your pictures you pose in front of bushes with women and children, gather close with prisoners. What’s your secret? Dear Marilyn, I do my best work in solitude. I wish I had the time to ride waves, stand over a subway grate — to befriend atoms, particles, waves of light. * * * Dear Albert, I glanced into a cup of tea today and wondered about the light at the bottom of the cup — how it travels through liquid from one place to another. Can you elucidate? Dear Marilyn, The light is hitting the camera of your eye. It’s significant because for once you’re on the other side of the lens. Dear Albert, I did always want to be a creator of stars. You feel much closer to that than I do. Dear Marilyn, Stars are neither born nor die. Keep that in mind when your light starts to flicker.
Sarah Koenig’s poetry has appeared in Crab Creek Review, Raven Chronicles, The Far Field, Hummingbird, Tinderbox, Pamplemousse, City Arts, Pageboy, and Calyx. It has also appeared in Washington 129, an anthology of Washington state poets, and on King County transit as part of the Poetry on Buses project.