Nails

March 3rd, 1923

Luretha Mae

Harlem, N.Y.

My Dear Friend,

When everyone else in the house is asleep, I see you, my seraph in the paper, and I shackle you. Your six pierced palms become my sanctum, carpeting my conjunctiva, thus concealing your countenance. Your mouth molds to mine and your ischium chisels at my pelvis. And then, I am clean.

But when the sun rises, all the oils of Arabia will not sweeten my sullied hand, hidden in an alluvium where silt, sand, and soil slink under my nails, under the nails crushing my cuneiforms to the mattress.

With sincerest regards,

Elizabeth Chen

March 10th, 1923

Elizabeth Chen

Old Chinatown, N.Y.

Dearest Elizabeth,

You are a river. You are a poplar. You are a hyacinth. A lily in a pool, and your buds have bloomed. I bid you, sheathe yourself, lest the sun touch you before I do.

Sincerely,

Luretha

March 17th, 1923

Luretha Mae

Harlem, N.Y.

My Dear Friend,

I heard you have received a ring from some suitor. Do you like it? Is it silver? Does he know you like silver, not gold?

I regret that I cannot give you a ring, but I’d sift through all the fluid in my veins and serve it to you, my ribcage, your chalice, if you’d like it.

You’ve known him for how long? You’ve known me for eight years. Even though we’re the same between our thighs, even though we’re not the same color, our envelopes are. Isn’t that enough?

With sincerest regards,

Elizabeth

March 24th, 1923

Elizabeth Chen

Old Chinatown, N.Y.

Dearest Elizabeth,

I like the ring, and it is silver, but more than that, I like your small, almond-shaped eyes. The pale oval of your visage now warps in the pool. For I have not seen you in so long.

Do you feel like a sculpture sometimes? I am sick of being stared at. The only eyes that should be staring at me are yours.

You know this is enough.

If we ask for any more, it will be too much, not for us, but for them, and they will take you away from me. They will take us away from each other for good.

Sincerely,

Luretha

April 1st, 1923

Luretha Mae

Harlem, N.Y.

My Dear Friend,

I wish I were there to trace the metal circle under your knuckle. Not with my finger, of course. I am considerate. I would be content to trace it with my pupils.

Do you like him?

My sincerest regards,

Elizabeth

April 8th, 1923

Elizabeth Chen

Old Chinatown, N.Y.

Dearest Elizabeth,

Though I love you, I must learn to love him.

And I am afraid.

When I sleep, I see myself – I see us separated, sitting before those sitting before sewing machines from sunup to sundown, streaks with scraps of leather carved into our shoulder blades, our skin striped like our dresses. Then, after sunset, they will shackle us and throw us into confinement, into those lightless cells where the sun will never touch us again, as if they have already confined me from you our whole lives.

Aren’t you afraid?

Sincerely,

Luretha

April 15th, 1923

Luretha Mae

Harlem, N.Y.

My Dear Friend,

I have been afraid from the moment your stare fused to mine.

I apologize for asking if you were willing to fight for us. I have no right to ask that of you when I am too afraid to fight my God for not making me a man, for making me a man the same color as you.

Last night, I thought of a mare in a stable. I looked at my slight smile in the dark, warm puddles and fluttering lashes with which the beautiful creature blinked at me. I held onto her hair like reins as we rode together. I could never race her. What if she tripped and shattered my spine, or shattered her own spine? I think that in the minds of men, we are mares. Dumb animals to be paraded around until we drop dead, and they move onto another steed of a better breed.

I thought of your thick, coiled hair. How I would like to braid it. How I would have to braid it, so I would not have to fear that it would leak through my fingers like sand through the funnel of an hourglass.

My sincerest regards,

Elizabeth

April 22nd, 1923

Elizabeth Chen

Old Chinatown, N.Y.

Dearest Elizabeth,

Last night, I dreamt of the mare, too.

I unwound the frayed rope from her muscular neck. Her black fur shone brightly under the sun. I tried to flee from the field, but she could not leap over the fence.

But that is not all I dreamt of.

When everyone else in my house is asleep, I see a man in the paper and he shackles me. His many nails scratch my conjunctiva. When I blink away the blood, it is your countenance upon mine. Your ischium chisels my pelvis and the oils in your hair sweeten my hands, sullied by the silt, sand, and soil in your alluvium.

Your mouth molds to mine.

But then, I taste the silk of my sheets.

And the salt of his sweat in it.

This will be the last letter I send.

You must not send me another.

If you must remain within the fence, do not leap over it. I do not need a ring. I only need to know that you will live, even if you must learn to look like you love someone else to survive.

Love,

Luretha Mae