The Card

The invitation came in heavy stock.

I put it face-down on the counter.

Their names in gold. A lock

of something in my chest. I wondered

if I should open it more than once,

but I only did it that one time.

The photograph—their smile, the bunch

of flowers they're holding. The time

and date printed formal and sure.

The church. The address. All the things

that mean they've made it work. The pure

fact of it. The gold that rings

around their names. The weight

of the card. I've left it

face-down because I can't locate

what feeling I should gift it—

not anger, not quite envy,

something flatter. Something like

the air before a storm, the empty

feeling. I know I should like

them. I do like them. But

the card sits there on my counter

and I can't turn it over. The rut

of the decision. The longer

I don't open it again,

the more it means something.

I'm not sure what. The thin

line between having nothing

and having made a choice.

Their photograph is still

smiling, though I don't hear their voice

anymore. The card sits still.