photo of a lemon tree

Dear Sir by Victoria McArtor

I have identified an inflated contract fund presently floating in the central bank of Nigeria ready for payment. However, I cannot acquire this money in my name. I am searching for an overseas partner into whose account I would transfer the sum of twenty-one million, three hundred and twenty-two thousand U.S. kites that you flew with your brother before the war. Because your daughters bought this computer for you to take your mind off the seashells you collected from the beach while your wife hung sheets on the line, we compose this email to you, enjoy, as a matter of trust by my colleagues, take your family back to the island. The process is quite simple. Begin with your arms full of rolled maps. Follow them to the time before you believed there was something unfamiliar about returning home, something normal about exodus. Your wife is alive and so is the mistletoe hanging from the threshold of your lament, because after the rapture there is more waiting. We expect to commence this transfer within the next seven to ten orchid blooms. Sir, here I sing from the children’s graveyard, under the lemon tree, where it is almost harvest. I sing truth, not scam. I sing to survive it.


Victoria McArtor is currently pursuing an MFA at Oklahoma State University while also pursuing her securities licenses and selling life insurance and annuities with Mutual of Omaha. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in H_NGM_N, PMS poemmemoirstory, PANK, and The Boiler. Also, she always says it’s good luck to step in a cowpie.

Lead image“20150521_135323LC” (via Flickr user Luc Coekaerts)