Dear Emma Goldman,
You are so beautiful, I would like to kill spiders for you.
I would like to draw you a hot bath, watch the steam rise in your cold apartment. I would like to count the hairpins hidden in your curls, like counting stars, counting czars. I would rename all the prime numbers for you, and they would nuzzle your ankles like kittens. I would rub your spectacles clean with a soft dry cloth. I would roll down your stockings and kiss both your kneecaps until they bloomed roses.
I would make you a simple meal. I think you would appreciate that. I would bake bread for you and I would not diminish you. I would make you a pot of soup, golden with fat, and always visit you in prison.
If you come to see me, come in the early spring. My front garden will be full of daffodils. I will hang a black flag from the porch. You could read Kropotkin out loud to the children before bed. No matter my exhortations, they still ask for princes.
Then we could dance in my kitchen. I’d wear my best dress. It will be blue, with tiny anatomically correct hearts, blue on blue. I would sew a matching one for you, hand-stitched.
I would get you some good cigars. We could smoke in the backyard, under the April moon. I am sure you could love me. And when you didn’t anymore, you could leave, without my permission.
Truly,
A–
_______
Art by Yvonne Martinez.
