The mail slot is a mouth that only eats

The mail slot is a mouth that only eats.

I reached in and pulled out a stack

of "Final Notice" and "Current Resident,"

and one heavy, cream-colored ghost.

The wedding was two Saturdays ago.

I missed the steak and the awkward toast,

the jagged tear across the envelope

proving I didn’t care enough to check

until the flowers were already dead in a bin.