Dear Doctor for Matthew Mars


Forgive these
erasure marks. False steps and feints
toward speaking something into existence. Like

small worlds flung from lips and fingertips,
some crude and inchoate as moons, others
fearfully and wonderfully
given over to tourism.

One speaks of invisible engines,
another of secret rooms;
then of course we have the synthesis
of hyacinths and biscuits.

This could be a conversation
if we communicated telepathically
and our bodies forgotten languages
suddenly returned. Here’s a clue:

your name is the abbreviation
of a mountain. Mine,
the eponym of an archangel,
the chief apostle, and
a certain person
tenderly disposed toward
the drunk and disorderly.

Yours is the Art & Science
of the Doo-Wah-Diddy, decryptions
from your skin. Mine
is just to keep the brush and thud –
whitenoise to mask my tinnitus.

I am alone now with the ringing in my ears, and

Doctor, you were never dear
to me, just a useful, albeit charming,
means to an end, until now, sir,

thank you for singing at my wedding.