“A god has taken a shine to you,” explains the letter.
She’s skeptical, but curiosity compels her.
His face is masked. His name, unsaid. At dawn, one feather
curls on her sheets, the only proof that he’s been with her.
Mind fogged, she brews some coffee. Pops an Alka-Seltzer.
“A god has taken a shine to you,” explains the letter,
which she rereads. It helps her understand no better.
She slams the cooled mug down. What happened last night, Elsa?
His face was masked. His name, unsaid. At dawn, one feather
was all he left, and now you feel beneath the weather…
Who says “take a shine,” anyway—some corny geezer?
“A god has taken a shine to you”—like hell! Damn letter!
She calls in sick to work. Across her sick mind flitters
the thought that she should go to church, confront the greaser
who goes by “God.” Real name, unsaid. But there’s that feather
she woke beside, which now lies warm against her sweater…
The next time that he asks to meet her, she agrees, her
doubt vanished. This time, there’s no need for “god,” “shine,” “letter.”
His face is masked. No names. Next dawn, another feather.