Return to Sender

Was she thinking: grief
is a letter you mail to yourself

once the turnstile’s been turned
at the subway station

x number of times. The delay
is necessary, chosen in advance

for a day like this, when she pushes
the door open into a room

made immaculate, and relatives
made inquisitive, by an infant’s 

early death . . .

Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 4. Purchase the book to read the full piece.