Out of Range

The envelope is a clean, white slice,

cutting the air like a piece of ice.

I found the stub in the bin by the door,

showing a number I can't ignore.

She’s twenty-two and the world is a feast,

feeding the belly of a hungry beast.

I look at her hands, so soft and so thin,

and wonder how much the world will let in.

She thinks it’s a ladder, a simple ascent,

not a wire that’s frayed or a metal that’s bent.

I’m holding the paper, feeling the fear

that she’s finally leaving the atmosphere.