If I could mail myself to anywhere, I would not mail myself to you.
You thought I was going to say something else, didn’t you? You thought that all of this, this falling down, taped together box, this bubble wrap and book of stamps, this boned parchment, you thought this was all for you. This slant-lined address, this return to sender, this handle with care, this wrong side down. For you. This way I’ve made my body smaller and smaller, folded it in on itself until even the postmaster understands the meaning of air mail, until I am light enough to throw through the sky without postage.
Not for you.
That last night you said, “You’re making a mistake.”Yes, I’ve made mistakes. Scribbled the wrong zip code. The incorrect spelling of a last
night name. I’ve mistaken MO for Montana. MI for Mine. Put duck stamps on upside down, so their heads sank into the letters. Once I misplaced your birthday card with an ace of hearts. That’s one error I won’t make again.
Of course I remember your address. Who could forget the place where my heart lived under the bed for so long, thumping against the back of your desires, blanketed in dust and the distractions of your attentions? The place is indelibly inked on my fingertips, on the flaps of my hips. Everywhere I leave prints.
I wanted to seal myself closed with melting wax and the imprint of my sadness, curlicued and fleur-de-lied. But I never could self-stick for long. I need someone else’s hands to crease me into thirds, to slip me inside, to lick the edges of my life.
Do it for me, would you? Sing your name. Write In Care Of. Drop me down that metal mouth. Send me on my way.
Today, I received no letters. Crazy, right? But also makes me feel like I might get caught up! I did, however, buy some very simple envelopes and paper on which to write.
Inspiration of the day: Bunny in a box. Postage stamps. Moving.
Yesterday, I didn’t send anything because it was Sunday.