Not Illegal In Mississippi Poem by Bernard Henrie

I notice you writing a letter,
perhaps a love letter
as the burgeoning hush
falls across the library,
and the stillness on me like a cat,
books neat as sailors on ships
and the green lamps looking back.

Forgive my unasked calculations,
but as you linger until closing
I have time to think and imagine.
Love letters are not illegal in Mississippi
and I feel a desire to be mentioned
in one paragraph of your letter,
your letter where you smile
and your dark lashes lower and close
for someone I will never know by name.

I would share your table, your paper
and the outer shell of your recondite life;
I would be a starched sailor dropping
by rope from the rigging to your table.
A man with eyes the color of seaweed
and a red bandana tied at the throat.

And just then, you pause to touch your pen
against your tongue, like the children
who shaped their brushes when painting
radium numbers on glowing watch faces.

I never read past any notice of XO's
that say my letter was sealed with a kiss,
or glance at my watch without pausing
for the children who grew a cherry pit
on their tongue never to become older
and sit writing a love letter in the library.