By not opening it when it came.  



By letting it fall behind the Hepplewhite dresser

where it slid with a swoosh into wisps of dust.



By teasing it out, eventually, and holding it up

to the hall’s one harsh unshaded light.



By sliding a thumb under the flap, methodically,

then drawing out the several diaphanous paper panes inside.

A multicolor stardust wafted out of the envelope,

a glossy stuff which settled on my slippers and glittered my hair.



By reading it and reading it.

Whose name was this, 

announcing a reception in fine calligraphy?  

A godparent?  A cousin once removed?

The name contained Norwegian vowels and French cedillas;

I could not pronounce it.



By making preparations.

How would I get there?

I pondered the directions:

take the Major Duomo to an unmarked exit

then count traffic lights.

A limousine, then, a white stretch.

I’d fund it somehow.



By buying new clothes, chiffon, Lurex,

and a strand of apotropaic cat’s eye beads.

By realizing I would look ridiculous.



By not responding if I pleased.

I steamed off the stamp on the return envelope 

and put it in a drawer with all the others.



I am always getting invitations!

All that vellum and glassine wasted,

that precious gold leaf.



I didn’t go.  

I never go. 

Who wants me there, anyway? 

Who keeps forgiving my aloofness and my truancy?

Who asks once again for my attendance,

requesting it cordially,

calling it an honor?