Fragile

6/26/25

The mailman stuffs our bills haphazardly again

in wall-trapped timeworn cages that damn near

come off the hinges every time I turn the key and

I despise him until I remember I’m just a streak of

pink in the lake-bound sky and he’s never been

on a paddle board before so you can’t expect him to

find his footing in time for the first waves and I’m

not going to tear through any of the envelopes for

at least a week because I have to flatten them first and

I’m starting to question the definition of functioning

now that rent is due but it’s a lot easier to place my

blame on a man’s plate just to scrape it into the bin

and walk halfway home before crouching on pavement

and begging God to clean my laundry while I take time

by the hands and use it for rest that’ll never be

well-deserved but I’m too concerned about the

ache in my mouth to find space for self-reflection

so I guess we can keep the bags in the living room

for a few more days or until one of us twists an ankle

tripping over the last pair of clean underwear

in a box labeled do not bend.

— ODH