for Megan

I don’t trust the postman. My letters
arrive in a certain order on certain
days where the shadows of limbs cross
on the mailbox like a lock. I never hear him
arrive; I try to watch for him but always
something makes me look away—Nicodemus wanting
water, flickering leaves, a strange noise
from my other room—and a full box
a moment later. Who is this phantom in
blue, impersonal herald?

I take my letters to the post office, affixing
the stamps like seals on a pharaoh’s tomb,
preserved thoughts, the paper folded
just so, the creases tight and strong. I
hope the rain won’t smear the
address. Anticipation and
                         the scratch of my pen.