Bacab Skerry
by Jeannelle Ferreira
In Finland, the first letter said, with C., whom I met at the ruins in Oxkintok. I had gone one morning before sunrise to get a sketch of that cenote,
and it was as if he appeared from the bottom of it. He said he wanted to see something really different, and tickets to Helsinki were cheapest.
The envelope was overrun with postage, stuffed with pictures.
The second letter came sealed with a glyph made in beautiful blue. Midsummer… We've rented someone's mökki for next to nothing.
I don't think it's had an improvement since the first Russian occupation, but the cloudberries grow wild.
C. works on his translation of the Dresden Codex.
One photograph filled with the tongues of a bonfire; an uncertain porch wrapped in thick mist; a half-rotted rope swing suspended over a carpet of pancake mushrooms.
Thanks for the postcard. This is, I guess, the wet month. I've never seen lightning like this. It comes down close. I've gotten some truly fantastic shots (encl),
but we are mostly stuck inside, in the dark, with the strange ozone smell.
When he touches me, my skin crackles.
I have to tell you, said the next letter, postmarked Crete, we were sitting in this café and I said
that the summer had been one thing, but winter was another, that I couldn't stay through all those weeks of night.
He put down his sand cake and looked at me, and then he began to rain.
