Lisa Roullard, three poems

When I Am an Envelope, White #10

I will keep a space. A flat pocket

my gift to give, obvious

and secret.

Consider the seashell with a twist:

exactly where it spirals

into itself cannot be

completely seen.

I’ll hold out hope that someone

will mail the sea.

Will it be the same,

what the waves write in my shell?

From a tunnel of pearl, the ever-roar

releasing gently.

When I Am a Letter

It will be proper pleasure

and I am prepared

to be black ink, self-saying.

I, too, will be the page:

forest after white

forest wandering

within edges.

There will flit the chickadee,

whistle and song

of handwriting, black-capped

and common.

There will crook the stream,