Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Twenty-eight
Spring 2012
How to Write a Letter You Don’t Want Anyone to Read
Rebecca Schumejda

Dear Andy Rooney,

Like our cat, you died last night from surgical complications.
I’ve learned that what should be routine is always anything but.

I want you to know that I cannot carry her stiff body past
her two kittens and my daughter into the backyard
where we plan to bury her, so she is lying in her kitty litter.

I feel guilty, Andy, I really, really do. I’ve learned that using
the adverb really is unnecessary, but I can’t help myself.

Truth be told, I watched you because 60 minutes often runs late
and is on before our favorite show. I always told you to talk

faster, but you never listened and my husband muttered about
how if you could make money writing then I could too, so I

decided to do what I always do, I leave with my daughter,
my husband’s dinner wrapped in tin foil, still warm on the stove,
the shovel sticking up in a pile of dirt beside the hole I dug.

About Rebecca Schumejda

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