Dear sir madam,

Dear sir madam,

Dear sir madam,

It has been drawn to our attention that Oskar Panizza,
the manifest content of the dream so ignominiously
mistreated by that Viennese doctor, may in fact
have been a glorified houseboy known to his peers
as “swine”, “sow” or “hog”. In this topsy-turvy world
announced daily by your own dead father to his kingdom,
he has been selected as the recipient of your secret wish,
and it is our duty to inform you that he now longs
for release from limbo.
        Please return immediately
was the best way to describe my response
as the ground rushed steadily toward me. I felt
drawn to the thought of withholding the key
to this mystery they wanted, but it was far too
late, according to the experts: the solution to the
puzzle had by then passed on, like pictographs
parsed through a plughole. Like what?
You heard me. Indeed I did.
        “It was clearly intended as some kind of punishment
aimed at his mother’s penis. There was this woman, see,
only she was me,” squealed the good doctor, who’d berate
me giddily, whereupon Oskar, receiver of stolen kicks, would
“mistranslate” and “disseminate” the fabled lingo of entrapment
and arrest. Who was he? I wondered, not without wanting
to hold him in my arms and give him a damn good thrashing.
Threshing machines would start up and I’d go
pondering the mist or something.
       This continued for several cycles, then Irma dropped by,
wanting to know how things were coming along.
I showed her the letter and for this
paid dearly: before long she’d guessed
that the missing words were “broom” and
“bucket”. That’s how Oskar remained latent,
his code uncracked, his secret intact,
his trap shut, placated.