Stephen French

Dead Letter

It’s a zero sum game,
but somehow you’ve won.
I guess it goes without saying
that congratulations are in order:
I’ll even bake your favorite cake,
because that’s how much I love you.

The birds wore a cloud of you
as they swarmed and made game
of the children -- devoured them like cake
until there were no more left to be won.
It’s a perfect and unbreakable order,
as you’re so fond of saying.

And it’s wrong, what I’ve been saying
for all those centuries about you
and your allegiance to the order
of that hyped-up board game
that nobody has ever won.
The proof is in the cake.

And, besides your victory, take the cake
to mean I heard what you were saying
when you told me the blackbirds had won
every single empty part of you:
so much for your small game
and perfect pecking order.

But my words still come out in the wrong order
and with the tact of a supermarket cake.
That was never part of the game.
Neither was the nay-saying.
But please trust that I’m happy for you,
because I know: all of your days are hard-won.




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Stephen French is a hard-headed seventeen year old, bent on upending the world’s current perceptions of poetry. His pieces are fresh, encompassing, and distinctly witty. In approximately four years, Stephen French will be a national name -- give him two more after that and he’ll be known ocean to ocean. This guy has got it going on. He is pleased to be represented in Jet Fuel Review, and will undoubtedly pursue a future in writing.