All the Small Openings

Tuesday night, the box I'd been avoiding

since sometime in spring. I sat down with it.

First envelope: the thin line, the voiding

of skin along the finger. Split

before I felt the sting.

Two more cuts in an hour.

I kept going. The mail kept being

mail—old bills, a card, a flyer,

a birthday card in pale blue ink

from someone I hadn't thought about.

I opened it too fast. The link

of the name to the year to the doubt

I keep somewhere. Turned it face-down.

Pressed my finger to my jeans.

Sat in the quiet of the town

I live in now. Whatever that means.