A prose poem today. I've been thinking about what Jason Shinder told me, that the poem will show up; that I don't have to fight for it. So I'm trusting that this is the poem.
Dear Son,
I hope and pray that you are well so far from us. Your father sends his best regards and we both thank you for the banknote sent in last month’s letter. It will keep us above water for another month or two. You will remember the sheep that learned to climb the stairs. We were offered money for her by a man who runs a small, traveling sideshow. He was impressed that the animal was so tame and the she knew how to lift the lid from the cooking pot. He is convinced he can teach her other little tricks and, besides her yearly shearing, he can collect a pence a piece for her performances. I know you were fond of the animal, but times being what they are, and the rest of the flock being more than enough to handle, your father said the man could have her for a crown. They argued, the man saying, she’d take a year to begin to truly earn her keep. But you know your da, he would not be moved and the price was settled.
Now the kitchen is quiet in the evening. The lid of the pot stays put. The room upstairs is empty but for the old coat she used to dream on. I did not know I would miss her. It is hard to lose you both in so short a time. I enclose a curl of her coat. Wasn’t she bonnie?
May God keep you close, your loving Ma
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