LETTERS ADDRESSED TO A DEAD MAN

My grandmother sends me outside
to greet the mailman & give him a couple of letters
she wishes for him to deliver.

He doesn't even bother
to look into my eyes as he reaches
takes the letters from my hand
drives off to deliver packages, do his job.

I take a look into our mailbox
see what he's left for us today
reach and take the letters from the mailbox
walk off into the house, for the day.

Before doing so, I stay standing
right next to the mailbox
soaking the daylight in my x-large chemise
I look down at the mail I'm holding.

One letter on top of all others
one letter with no return address
one letter addressed to my father
my father, who's dead.

Here's why I hate the mail service
if there's someone who needs to get over
this man's death and the fact that he
no longer inhabits the earth, it's them.

In my psychosis, I'm allowed to say
they do it on purpose, they're all out to get me
the mailman just loves to torture me
very well then, I'll play along.

I find it funny that the letter
is addressed to Sr. instead of Mr.
it reminds me of Fight Club, for some reason
"Everything is under control, Sir."

Sr.Tolin Figueroa, I chuckle
then I come to the realization that
I am still outside, standing next to the mailbox
in my turquoise chemise, with my skinny legs
and absolutely nothing underneath it.

In my psychosis, I'm allowed to suspect
the neighbors are all staring at me from their windows
thinking my grandmother's granddaughter
is well out of her mind for standing outside
in nothing more than a chemise with the wind blowing through it
laughing at letters addressed to dead people.

I throw an evil eye towards a couple of windows
"This street is nothing more than a graveyard anyways" I say out loud
then move my thoughts along to more important matters
this letter I'm holding, it's really addressed to me, not my father.
this letter I'm holding, it has no return address
so I have no idea who the fuck it's from.

It's easy to figure that out, however
Sr.Tolin Figueroa
this wasn't his actual name, as V isn't an actual name
nothing more than a signature
for work that doesn't necessarily require an actual name
this letter is art related.

The art department, the UPR, the president himself
they all know my father is dead
they all gave money to soothe the causes
to tie loose ends
they all know he's dead, but the letters keep coming
because they know what I know.

Only when I realize
I'm actually still standing outside, practically naked
now with a more serious look in my face
now very anxious to open this letter
with the neighbors all around me, still staring
they too, want to know what's in it.

I decide to go back inside
I smile towards the windows
wave my middle finger in the air on my way back to the house
I throw the rest of the letters in a little coffee table
put the letter addressed to my father close to my heart
it has no return address because it doesn't need one.

They know he's dead, but they also know I'm alive
they know letters addressed to him will reach me
they know I'll take the letters as my own
this is what they want
and it was my idea in the first place
so it's what we all want.

I rip open the envelope, my heart races
as I reach inside to find a card, of white thick expensive paper
with a triangle on the outside cover, that allows you
to have a look inside, even without opening it
by this point I don't even want to open it.

But it's too late already
curiosity killed the stupid little girl who
takes after her dead daddy's artist name
I put the card closer to my face, almost press it against my nose
put one of my eyes in the little triangle, like it's a keyhole
inside, I see, images complex beyond comprehension.

In my psychosis, I'm allowed to believe
this is all part of my training
in taking after him, his work, his purpose
as these beliefs sink in, the image begins to make sense
the world, now, the world shifts to makes sense
layers of terracotta colors, seas of unimaginable creatures
dead fish along with dead sail men in clouds shaped like canoes

I open the card
inside, a message awaits
here I realize, the card is from my father himself
and it reads:

VENTUROSOS SON LOS TIEMPOS DE CREACION
GENEROSOS EN AFECTOS, EN
ESPERANZAS, EN PORVENIR.

I let out a long, deep, sigh of relief
everything is going according to plan, Sir.