I adjust the light of the silver gooseneck lamp
so it beats directly on two letters I’d received;
trust somewhere in the glare, I’ll find myself
in missives from visionaries I’d never met.

The first, a clairvoyant who’d briefly held
a slab of amethyst that once belonged to me.
She declares me complex, practical, sensitive,
nurturing – a kindly person with impeccable
manners who does not suffer fools gladly --
a moderate, classic soul in love with theater
and antiquated books, quick-witted,
bored easily by routine.

The second, an ex-wife who’d briefly held
a man who now belonged to me.
She declares me simple, conniving, obscene,
indecent – a home-wrecker with no sense
of family who cares little about havoc --
a teasing, tempting whore in love with herself
enough to make Eve’s notorious apple
seem cultivated in comparison.

I wish I didn’t know carving words
on paper doesn’t make them so.
This knowledge, though,
does make the second letter
much easier to dismiss,
even as it makes the first letter
much harder to believe.