If she had been a stamp, I think
she would have been the three cent,
or another such small, eccentric denomination.
She would have been
the ones you forget are made,
the ones you see rarely,
the ones you use in times of emergency,
when you are out of regular stamps,
and your letter can only be rescued by forgotten
stamps, the old kind with glue gone brown,
which you cull from the back and sides of a junk drawer,
left there maybe by your grandmother,
when she was still alive to mail you letters.
Perhaps I just want her to be a stamp,
So that someone could send her back to me.
So that I could send her back to you.