Before the Pages Open

I heard her say six dollars and forty cents.

The machine beeped. Her hand went to the plastic,

that cellophane skin around unopened spine,

and I breathed in before I could stop—

that acidic future smell, that promise of

every unread sentence still waiting.

She was talking about late fees.

The words slid past like someone else's mail.

The shrink-wrap caught fluorescent light,

threw a small bright square across her wrist.

She tore it open the way you tear open

anything that's been promised to you—

careful, almost afraid of what comes after.

I wanted to say something about how

once you've heard that sound,

the plastic giving way,

you can't unknow how fast

the smell will fade.

How temporary the whole thing is.