Dearest Friend by Adri Smith

Dearest Friend,

I am reading your letter again

with the candle we saved  

by our bed. The children have all

gone to sleep. Aloud I read

how Congress has still not

resolved a Constitution.

I read about the heat, the air

that hangs around one’s neck

like a net with too much fish.

I read that the days are long

in Philadelphia without

the company of a woman,

though the newspapers

are plentiful, and the pubs

sing loud into the night. I read

that there is not enough paper,

not enough ink. I read that your

shoes are wearing down its soles

from pacing the corridors – 

Georgia disagreeing with New York,

Connecticut with Virginia.

I read that your wig is coming

loose and your shirts are growing

small. I read that in the streets

people have begun to call you

by name, you have been there

so long. I read of your stubbornness,

your belief in a Republic

and the best of men. But this too:

“I desire you to remember the Ladies.”

I read that there is less time for you

to write to me. I read that you

do not want to see Boston. I read

that you ask after your children

but care nothing for our dear

neighbor, dead now three weeks.

I read and read again, though

none of this you wrote. You write

of political alliances, abroad

and at home. You write of political

institutions, political trade, political laws

political questions, political answers.

Your letters are half

the length of mine. Write what

I need to read in your own hand.

Yours faithfully.