I suppose you might have left it there yesterday
on purpose, or maybe you didn’t.
Perhaps it flew from the plastic bag
hanging on your motorbike or
out the car window,
unnoticed.
Still, it seemed odd to find an unopened,
stamped and addressed envelope
lying on the ground in a village market
between the freshly butchered pork slabs
dripping blood and stacks of sweet potatoes,
sellers more concerned with shooing away
flies than consummating sales.
I pick it up to feel the weight, not heavy but
its thickness more than one sheet of paper,
then imagine it to be a carefully penned
love message, no, it’s a moving farewell,
yet no dried tears are visible. But like always
I switch the voice and think of bills unpaid
or a nasty epistle to a former friend.
Psychological tests say, of course,
an ethical person dismisses curiosity and
posts the piece unopened.
I debate what is inside and whether or not
the contents are in a language I can read.
The handwriting is beautiful, almost calligraphic,
each letter small but perfectly formed.
Undeterred, I carefully place the envelope
where I found it, leaving it for someone
else to find. When I return from buying
groceries it’s gone, but I continue to be
haunted by that message,
never received.
(I found this mentioned in my computer as having been published in the San Diego Annual, Spring, 2009)