Junk Mail
 
 
 My new husband pulls the hood of his sweatshirt
 over his head and jokes, in that inappropriate way men
 
 think so funny, that I should come looking for him
 if he doesn’t return from checking the mail. 
 
 My heart jumped that short space between my chest
 and throat, but I didn’t laugh because it was dark
 
 outside and all of our neighbors are white. 
 I worried every minute of the five he was gone,
  
 recited the Serenity Prayer five times
 before he came back through the front door, keys
 
 in hand, dragging a little of the night’s cool air with him. 
 In the pile of mail, sealed envelopes
 
 from utility companies, a church flier, sheets 
 of glossy coupons – impossible to recycle. 
 
 The evening passed as so many do: dinner, 
 reading in bed, goodnight kisses. When morning
 
 
 came, my husband left for work and I watched
 as he drove out of the cul-de-sac, listening to the sound
 
 of the motor fading into sunrise before going into the closet 
 where he hangs his clothes, pulled down
 
 every hoodie he owns, even the Adidas he bought
 when we were in Korea, shredded them into unwearable strips.

First published in Fall Lines, 2015