July 4, 1944

Dearest Ernesto:

These words, I hope you understand them.

I even hope maybe this letter finds you

at peace at Finca Vigía. Are you still writing

about bulls and war and love? What did

Neruda say about love? What didn’t he say?

This pencil feels odd and small in my hand.

I keep smudging my words, turning my palm

into a greasy grayness—like those slippery fish

I keep trying to catch. Maybe I could use a pole

to write with, although the words will be no better.

I write this letter with hopes I can send it

in time for your 45th birthday. I invite you

to come over to Cojimar to fish with me.

I feel lucky when you’re around. I even

believe I’m going to catch a big marlin.

And if nothing else, we’ll complain about

the Germans and have some beers and sleep

all day if we want. Please bring that pretty wife

of yours too. And bring a girl for me if you can.

Neruda would want us to do more than read about love.

Your trusted friend,

Gregorio