Dear Jules, by Grace Courvoisier


Dear Jules,

If I see you being quiet, I’m not going to ask what’s wrong.
I know you’re just splitting the epiphanies
of your mind

like, how you ever learned English?
Or how you mastered the bent breath it takes to sing
through the second hole of your harmonica.

And I’ll watch you, giving attention to my respiration

I choose the presence of your safety over hope,
has no plan for action these days.

So, I built a church for you in the home of my stomach.
You can expand; drink wine, contract and flex,
and do acid with God.

I’m new to this, and new to you, but I’ve been on
every rooftop in the world without


Make love to me, like I’m better than the worst thing
you ever did.


Dear Jules,

I write you a letter, in cursive, with three coats on in bed, but no socks;
floor lamp on dim, wings outstretched, and flapping gently.
I wear my sister’s red pants, washing my face in my hands,
while teasing nostalgia.
Coach called me the wasp, when I lived in fear of Italian shoes
walking towards the best of me.
One evening my freckles fell off, near the refrigerator,
in the corner of your sincere but crooked smile.


Dear Jules,

Yet another day alone, I found you in the white chair
of your disordered geometric interior bedroom,
holding your soul in your lap.

I imagine you at a cocktail party in Heaven, passing
beer bottles from Yuengling in and out of a vortex,
as heavy as a loaded cruise ship.

You’ll tour the empty cloud-side mansions, swiftly
like the swabbing of a human mouth shouting,
“Hello?” and squinting to see

as if you knew where you were without me.


Photo by Grace Courvoisier



Photo by Michael Gordon

Grace Courvoisier, a native of Las Vegas NV, received her Bachelor of Fine Arts in dance from the University of Illinois in Champaign-Urbana. She now works and resides in NYC, where a number of her choreographic works have been produced and shown, including Judson Church through Movement Research, Center for Performance Research, and Symphony Space among others. Poetry and short fiction has been a longtime passion and interest on the side, as a creative exercise and therapy tool after several debilitating injuries and surgeries since 2007. If Grace is not writing, or dancing, she is reading Victorian British literature, taking care of her two tuxedo kittens, and saving the world one sequin at a time. For more, see