Rejection Letters

Rejection letters fall like snow.
They nestle in
My hat, my scarf, the creases
Of my coat.
How gently they begin!
“Dear So-and-So,
We here at Such-and-Such:
A Journal thank you very, very much
For your submission.
Regrettably, we have to note
That, out of seven million pieces,
Only thirteen make the print edition.
Feel free to resubmit
Next year, if you can stomach it.”

I’d wish the editors in Hell,
But honestly, I understand,
For avalanches are at hand.
How many pages, all sincere,
Are forced upon our friends each year?
Or art of any kind, at that?
A college band that just plays noise
(“Think early Sonic Youth meets Skrillex meets
A feral cat”),
A painting which will likely sell
For half the cost of the canvas and paint,
Local improv played to family, friends, and empty seats.
And we always have the same complaint:
“How is it no one enjoys

My stuff? Where is my acclaim?
Why am I stuck snuffling through slop
For a rind or pit or sour cream drop
Of attention like some pig?” I don’t know—
Maybe there’s already too much art.
I get the journals in the mail for free
With each submission fee.
I’ll riffle through,
Peruse a poem or two,
And dedicate the rest, unread, to the recycling bin.
And those are writers with a name!
As for the rest of us: the snow,
The snow, obscuring us in part,
Then totally, till all is pure and blank again.