Holding it at the hinge

The tape is peeling at the corner of the box.

The cardboard is soft where my palms

have been sweating. I can't afford

the shipping to a place I'll never go.

When the woman behind me asks if I'm alright,

her voice is a soft weight on my shoulder.

The bridge of my nose goes sharp and thin.

I swallow a dry stone, jagged and hot.

The fluorescent light hums in the ceiling.

I stare at the zip code on the label

until the black ink starts to bleed,

my eyelid twitching a small, private beat.