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
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