Alexander Hamilton in a Letter to Eliza Schuyler by Jacqueline Kabrel

Was my brush with death. Meanwhile It stole a friend’s brother from her, convincing him That it knew the one true way out of his self-made maze. He forgot, as we all sometimes do, that The first place the dead go is The gaping heart of someone else. Statistics, then, tell me There are more dead men and women In the ground than in our arms,

So maybe I should consider myself lucky. I mean, yeah, Mom survived her aneurysm, My brother’s getting his meds, Dad has his job, And I’ve never broken a bone or any heart But my own, however temporary. No one’s died On my watch. The house still stands and our lawn, Stubbornly grows against the creeping fingers of winter.

It’s not like I’m hurting constantly. It’s not like I’m trying to scramble for answers To why meaning sometimes fails to graft itself To my brain midway through life’s endless questionnaire. This thing that passes for me, wears my skin Like a thin jacket—it knows What mask and costume to perform in, How to fall into the role of living, to believe We are anything but fleeting shards of light.

The interviewer stares, waiting to dismiss me. “My friends think I have a lucky star,” I say. “They look at the cosmos,