A Wall Waiting for Postcards

her empty wall is
waiting for my postcards,
the ones written with
a blue fountain pen
purchased at my great-aunt’s
bookstore in Neuchatel, the
one we visited together that
summer after we crossed the
lake in a boat, eager to try

on our new bathing suits.

these postcards she awaits must be
written in my characteristic
scrawl, yet be at least partially
legible. Most of all they must
be signed “Love you, sweetie,
Maman”,