I used to check the mailbox every day
looking for something with my name
written in loose cursive,
with a Georgia postage stamp
telling me you love me
I dream of that mailbox
barren and sad, creaky door
flaccid flag, with nothing inside
I dream of ups drivers and big brown parcels,
just for me
I read your letters
to my mother
the woman who raised me
I hear the pain in your hand
when you ask why she doesn’t write
I’m sorry she didn’t write
I’m sorry for what was stolen from us
I’m afraid you’ve died
I look up your name in the obituaries online
like a ritual
So many have died
None are your age
It’s mothers day and my dreams say
I have repressed rage
I always thought it was a super power
Being able to stash it away, but
now there is only pain
and feeling afraid
My dreams tell me
I can’t live this way
