i, like you, write letters to animals. those i have known and those i have not known. those who have known each other and those wild unaware.
dear deer,
dear young deer called fawn,
this last week has been difficult—what with the every moistening
fields and the low and constant hum of playful insects holding jazz like that.
janis and robert and bill were “on my case” as it were and i, unable to withstand the pressure, gave in and levitated too. gave in and floated away. gave in and with the woods
was holy and darkened, as you know, my dear, young deer called fawn.
yours,
s.
dear small mouse i accidentally killed,
not to reassign blame but the kness company does advert that thing as humane. much use that foreign and ill chosen word does you—with your head outside the trap and your body inside like you’ve been waiting for the magician all evening and an audience whipped between pity, outrage and humor. i am sorry. it was a pleasure to watch the other two (could you sense who they were with your tail or tiny claws?) run off down the alley. one did a little leap, like clicking his heels together ala fred astaire, and then off to colonize a deserted and safer row house.
yours,
s.
dear rhinoceros i read a poem about,
i didn’t see you though i can imagine you are large and grey. i saw your kin in mexico city too many times to pretend i wasn’t lonely. and poor. the zoo there is free and full of families and not depressing like the one in milwaukee, wisconsin. though i must admit to having gone there a few too many times as well. for similar, or also the same, reasons. you, i suppose, have never been to either milwaukee or wisconsin and spend time humoring dinosaur metaphors. i think that you would have liked the poem though cuz it has fast and slow like you do—though is composed of black and white hues and less integrated than yours.
yours,
s.
dear cat i want to adopt,
i know i seem to have a bad pet record. george was, like you must be right now, sitting on a carpet tree in an animal holding pen. he was with 2 other cats—a siamese and a dim looking tabby. he looked up as i came in and then stretched and walked over to visit. the teenage volunteer seemed impressed—he had not previously been so outgoing. i suppose i was charmed by the thought of magic or my own special powers but i think not. i think we just liked each other. sometimes these things have to do with smell—even humans fall prey to such primacy. i was in a hotel in texas when ronnie from that ithaca spca called to do a 6 month check up—see how george was getting along in his new home. i couldn’t tell her he’d been sick and died a couple months after he came to stay. i lied and said how happy we were to have each other. how he jumped up on the bed in the morning and was always good. i opened the previously untouched liquor fridge in the room and sat down to tell little stories about how he pawed my face and you know, it was all pretty sordid and like time travel into a future that didn’t come (at least not to me and george). anyway, i am hoping you do not have a heart murmur and will be happy if i ever really adopt you.
yours,
s.
dear king kong,
i can empathize. sometimes i feel so big—not great, better or best—just large and buildings and buildings mere steps with ill formed prosthesis and also i’ve felt misunderstood. and in love. and hairy.
yours,
s.
Stephanie Barber is a writer and artist who has created a poetic, conceptual and philosophical body of work in a variety of media, often literary/visual hybrids that dissolve boundaries between narrative, essay and dialectic works. Her work considers the basic philosophical questions of human existence (its morbidity, profundity and banality) with play and humor.
