Sonnet

    for Judith Moore

The small stone towers pictured on the other side of this postcard
are called Lanterns of the Dead. Lights are displayed at night in those tiny
porthole-like openings at the top to indicate the location of cemetaries,
so penitents hiking through graveyards by torchlight (a popular
activity here, the allure of which is a complete mystery to me)
can find their way. The lace pillow slips in this hotel look as if
they’re crocheted from loops of white icing. This creates the sensation
that one is sleeping with one’s head on a large unbaked, rectangular
pastry. The hotel manager, a man with a drooping mustache, greets his
squirmy young dog each morning by cooing, “Hello, Mr. Wiggling Gentleman.”
Of course this sounds ever so much better in French. That’s all for now, dear.
Kiss the baby for me. I trust his custardy little mind remains sweetly
unencumbered by thought. Determined as I am to return from this mission
in one piece, I see now why your daily prayers are soooo important.