I'm Writing for Your Autograph
Dear Antigone, I’m writing for your autograph, a humble request from the as-yet living and if you’d favor me with at least a note about your whereabouts (use the ppd. envelope for your convenience), I promise I won’t tell. You’d be among the equally famous in my collection like St Abernathy and that bastard son of Caesar whose gorgeous verse was lost when Rome burned. I’ve got a couple from the Antietam dead, blue and gray, and half a riddle from a dead and lost arctic explorer, “What did the penguin say to the frozen hand?” I’m all for piety. I’m like an antistrophe for the dead. I know that even though all graves are deep, many souls roam the streets. Once I thought I felt one, faint, like initials in faded ink. Please, Antigone, you’re the best. I need your signature for my collection. It’s not a crude request. The memory of the dead fuels the tiny fires of pity, our passion, the troubling difference between here and there.