I have a friend
Named Julia.
She sometimes writes me letters–
Snail mail–
In cards she has designed herself,
Her practiced hand switching from script to CAPS.
She writes of saints,
Flowers,
Love,
Friendship.
She picks flowers,
Sketches heaven,
Buys dark chocolate.
She cuts her hair short,
Announces to her office that
They will be dressing in themes like
Funky Friday
Or
Mismatched Monday.
My friend Julia
In skater shoes and
Classy, black, flowing skirts and
Headscarf nation and
(Sometimes)
A t-shirt with the giant print
Of a chimp-face,
Chewing a stogie.
She carries the weight of the world–
People hurt,
People hurting,
Wounds from each,
Generations deep…
But, she picks flowers anyway
Dances with abandon
Laughs while hitting her leg
Talks while splaying her fingers.
A verse talks of the woman
And, also, those who know her,
Specifically,
Those who entrust her
With their hearts.
These, the verse says,
Know an unfailing prize.
Behold, then: Julia Ghoulia.
Of dark chocolate.
And snail mail.