[Grand Rapids, Minn.]
June 10
1922
Dear Nightengale, Dear Roger:
Frances, the last, got born today. The nurses were the most womanly, the
blades of their shins fit to cut, the calves shining like easter hams
in casings when the sun came in. How did I know she was last, I could
understand you asking. Let’s hold those discussions until we see each
other alone. You and I know best that in some quiets you can have it
both ways.
For
breakfast this morning I had two slices of toast, two pats of butter,
one sausage, which I split, and a cup of the thinnest coffee I’ve ever
swallowed. Do you judge? Out the window of the shop I saw a lot of
people not having babies. Men and women, girls and boys: none of them
regally shitting anything from their wombs. Can you imagine?
Then
by lunch we had Frances. So please understand I don’t mean to stay
away. Will you fix it so my absence signifies something brighter? Soon
enough the other babies will tend to the baby. Ethel will calm and curve
her spine again. Everything, I mean to say, will calm down. Our
changelings yet grow into something that looks like us. Stay true as you
can.
Until As Soon,
Frank
