tiny slivers of marvelous moon disappeared into nothingness again tonight. 

I’m taking the pills again and am strict about my vitamins, which I take with the bergamot liqueur you prescribed. I’m also eating more slowly and chewing, chewing, like you like, tins of salted, oily fish and wine berries, logs of goat’s cheese with fairy honey.

I hope you’re doing well and living in the fantasies we always discussed, side by side in the moss, of cultivating orchids and goats and fawn, of eating well, the best fats, and letting the pomegranates and olives hang low and heavy, sitting so long in their ripeness as we dreamed away the days that they would drop directly into our mouths. 

one day we will picnic beneath the groves we nourished with our love and strong bodies; we will eat and worship, kiss and drink there when our husbands are dead … lovely naked plans. 

I hope you are still devoted to our goddesses, that your constable leaves often enough for you to worship in the wash basin. Iremember how mine used to interrupt my dreams to make love, stealing me from the underworld. 

I tell him when we are rich that I will take my own chamber and live amongst my plants, my two tiny doggies who sleep against me while I dream and imagine without him.

love making is for the daylit garden after an entire morning of placing seeds in the ground. how we mimic the earth. the evening must always be mine then, when I soak mushrooms in wine and take the whole night to eat them, to watch the groups of dark fruit breathing in their bowls against the candlelight and cry out all my anger. 

I miss you and cherish the memory of your cheeks warming the tips of my fingers, 

and await your next letter.