Jeffrey Letterly

Twyckenham Notes
Issue Sixteen
Summer 2023

The Seasons

I. Spring

These things always start
             with spring, the dying off
of snow, the fading of ice
             built up in front of the stairs,
naked branches mourning
             sub-zero air. Lawn furniture
reveals itself—brittled green plastic
             and rusted legs. Look!
the furniture exclaims, the crocuses!
             I crush with muddy boots,
pull out petals. Crocuses look
             nothing like irises but remind me
of irises at funerals.
             Who needs to be reminded
of him or her or them being gone
             when there is a long death,
a grander death every day
             outside the window?

II. Summer

I slept for at least seven hours
but it felt like thirty minutes.
It’s like that every day.

             I wish there was air conditioning
             and crocheted afghans and iced tea
             and chlorine. All at once.

There was one summer
where the checkbook floated
around $15 for weeks and weeks.
 
             Game shows in color played
             on a two-pronged plug TV
             that was only capable of black and white.

It hasn’t rained all week
so the coffee mug rings on the table
never washed away.

             When the sun never went down
             and I had to mow the lawn,
             I would pretend I was swimming

so I wouldn’t be bothered
by the sweat dripping down my back.
It never really worked.

III. Fall

I was in a school bus crash
on the bridge over the river
Mrs. so-and-so driving
tight grey hair     pursed lips
would give us a nickel at Christmas
made us hold our hands over our mouths
because we were all too loud
stopping the bus on the gravel road
by the fenced-in transformers
all that grey     buzzing
she looked like she was going to cry
on the bridge over the river
and we looked like     and parents looked like
and why am I telling you 
any of this?

IV. Winter

I want snow frozen air gloves that are never warm enough early darkness bare branches blowing moon unemotional stars teeth chattering fine china chipped and glued back together needles trapped in the threshold birthdays always spent indoors.


But there was 
no winter.

It didn’t get skipped,
                          going from fall to spring.


There was no spring.


And fall      didn’t go on forever.


It just
                                       wasn’t.

JEFFREY LETTERLY is a composer and multi-disciplined performer. He was born and raised in the heartland of the Midwest and now resides in Syracuse, NY. His poetry appears or is forthcoming in Atticus Review, BlazeVOX, BOMBFIRE, The Comstock Review, Del Sol Review, Dishsoap Quarterly, RHINO, Pif Magazine, samfiftyfour, Sip Cup, and Stone Canoe, among others.

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