Would you send me an autographed picture?
Would you send me a lock of your hair?
Would you kiss this postcard with bright red lipstick and send it back to me?
I slept with your form letter reply under my pillow
Imagined you wrote it yourself and you thought of me
You imagined what I looked like
And knew I was different from all the other fans
Fame is a job
You said so in a candid late night interview
This should have demystified the enterprise of fantasy
Instead, I made that intimacy part of my intimacy and I loved you even more
An intermediary tossed me in a pile with a 100 others just like me
A 100 others needing some affirmation of love
A 100 others needing some acknowledgement of kinship
A 100 others - and that's just today's batch of mail!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem