Dear Lidia,
I am bloodied.
He asks, “Paper or plastic,” and I choose noose.
Dear Lidia,
Somewhere between page five and the end, you mishandle my organs; I’ve put up four dozen MISSING posters all over Brooklyn in search of my lungs.
Dear Lidia,
My genitals have relocated themselves to my wrists behind misspelled tattoo and fourteenth scar. I rub them against humans shaped as time machines traveling me away from here.
Dear Lidia,
That photograph.
Dear Lidia,
How many ways can a child die and still breathe through teeth.
Dear Lidia,
I’ve lost track of all the mattresses which turned into monsters.
Even with all that flailing, I still count bed sores.
Dear Lidia,
The painter.
Dear Lidia,
That gun.
I’ve got a bullet hole beneath my right knee from that time that time that time.
Dear Lidia,
I’ve hemorrhaged out your ISBN.
Someone should have cradled my tongue before I castrated it.
Dear Lidia,
Napalm.
Dear Lidia,
The one with eyes, color of my childhood lampshade or emerald.
Dear Lidia,
The Vietcong man with the mosaic’d brain.
Dear Lidia,
My mother.
Dear Lidia,
Me, dressed as Charlie Chaplin, age 8.
Dear Lidia,
The photographed soldiers near Brooklyn Bridge, wearing masks to cover the missing in their faces.
Dear Lidia,
Each time I took my clothes off I became less of an onion and more like a shallot.
Dear Lidia,
How many languages speak the same version of ‘no’ and yet I an never quite master the accent on the right syllable.
Dear Lidia,
The writer.
There was that time that time that time that time.
Dear Lidia,
There is no such thing as a happy ending, even when giving a happy ending.
Dear Lidia,
The filmmaker.
Dear Lidia,
How to love.
Dear Lidia,
The womb.
Dear Lidia,
How to heal what rots what blooms.
Dear Lidia,
Did I ever tell you that I title my blood, war, because my body is in battle and yes, my cells rent their hunch to soldiers looking to punish my gender.
Dear Lidia,
I just. Can’t be. Girl. Anymore.
Dear Lidia,
I prefer to bag my own groceries because then I can understand the weight of ingredients and then it will be my city scum on potatoes and collard greens and then I will be reminded of all the ways
one attempts
to live.
Aimee Herman 