Andrew James Weatherhead

A Letter

my friend’s dad says he’s writing a novel based
on a premise he attributes to Samuel Morse that
sound waves never truly die, they just get so small
in amplitude we can’t hear them anymore, though
if we only had some way to hone in and amplify them
well, then we’d have access to all sorts of treasures

it’s not a bad idea actually, and he’s encouraged
me to help write it if I want to but leaving his
house tonight I was too full of a weird sadness
I had recommended we get high and watch
Weekend at Bernie’s but it was a big letdown —
neither of us could pay attention and the DVD
skipped over much of the middle third so when
the movie ended and the credits rolled they still
hadn’t gone water skiing and my friend’s dad
wouldn’t believe rigor mortis hadn’t played some role

so I decided to take a lengthy detour by the dark
and windy beach — there’s a tree there called Dr. Love
and, legend has it, if you ingest a special fungus
at the right time of day, when the trees turn black
against the purple night, then she’ll reveal all her
secrets to you

                       well, I’m writing to you now to say
that yes, I did partake of the special fungus, and yes,
Dr. Love did reveal her secrets to me, but
what I really began to notice that night
were the countless other trees with
even tinier names: oak, elm, & ash


Andrew James Weatherhead was born in Chicago, Illinois. His writing has appeared in or on Vice, Muumuu House, and The Fanzine. He currently lives in Brooklyn and makes collages at