Poems How Long Now Since the Mailman’s Gone Missing?

Danielle Blau

It’s a sad yellow feeling

like walking into someone else’s childhood.

 

A flickering

inside a vast, black egg:

 

it’s time to go.

The little shops pass

 

wall-less and candlelit

by night

 

and she (who greets you at the door)

her mouth

 

makes a warm cave.

The table’s set

 

for dinner, dear. Yes.

No one

 

will unravel this (your home address) again.