because to go there
is to put your bare hand
on a contaminated doorknob
and yank on it till you fall backwards
into pig shit then lie there exposed
to whatever comes through
from the other side.

because to go there is to get naked
and take a huge swing
at a hornet’s nest the size of
your own ego.

because to go there
is to eat a bowl of sorrow
twice a day for weeks and then
open a circus in your belly
for all to attend.

how do you not see this?
it’s so obvious.
it’s not good there.
I was born there
and have lived there
off and on
for my whole life.
I am intimate with this need
to be cursed
with ferocious curiosity
about the adventure of
disastrous judgement
and I am telling you,
begging you: let’s not.
let’s not go there.

don’t twist that key.
let go of that handle.
the teeth around the doorframe
will rip you
before you even get through
and tear you
if you manage to come back out.

there are so many better things
here. the wind can be strong
but it is always fresh.
when it rains here, it cleanses.
when the sun rises, it strengthens you
long before it can burn you.
believe me when I say
you do not want to know the forecast
for what’s on the other side
of that door.

in spite of all this I know
your hand is still reaching
for it. I know because
mine always has. so I’m begging
again:

let’s not. to go there
is to suffer. is to starve
on a meat pile. is to drown
in dank urine and thick old blood.
is to never die completely.
is to warn warn and warn
and never be heard.

The strangest moment
I’ve ever had: there was
a party going on. A woman
in a white dress sat on my lap.
It was likely obvious
what we were doing — you know
what I mean. But people
were oblivious to it.
We were there and not there at once
in some way. We had made a shell
out of our indulgence, a wall so thick no one
could see through — or they could see,
and the wall was between us
and their awareness of us.
It doesn’t matter. It was so long ago.
It could never happen to me again,
and I don’t recall her name. I can barely
recall mine some days, let alone
any memory of how we managed to become
so invisible we could make love in public
without fear of discovery
or failure to perform. It doesn’t matter,
it was so long ago, it could never happen
again, and I refuse to tear myself open
recalling her name.

You hold tightly to the belief
that there is only one being inside you.
How you will survive?

Your fear strangles you
whenever you hear a voice
that comes from within you,

a voice you do not recognize
that seems to know you. You say
it is just self-distortion, a mad memory.

Learned books have long said
it is vital to bring all beings within us
together under one name. Bah —

do not surrender your life
to learned books. Suppose instead
that you are a shell, a community,

and you long ago locked your doors
to the others. You’ve become the hermit
on the edge of their town,

the one they tell stories about.
Have you heard any of them? Maybe they
are curious or furious, as frightened of you

as you are of them? You should at least
crack open your door and listen. Ask them
to tell you their names and what they know

of you. Offer them a small meal
if they agree to come sit before the fire
in your hermitage. Don’t talk. Don’t

argue with them. Call them by their
names as you thank them
each in turn for what you learn.

Once they leave, not long before dawn,
you will sit by the coals until you fall well-asleep
for the first time in a long, long time.

Days ago, a wren flew into my parents’ house
when my dad left the front door open.

The bird flew confused from room to room
and never once sang.

I chased it down, caught it under a towel
on top of the living room curtains

and took it back outdoors where it sat
for a second on the front walk railing

before flying away. Today
I saw one outside the dining room window there

and it sang, over and over. Neither
my snoozing father nor my deaf mother heard.

I do not know if this was
the same bird, but I hope it was.

I will imagine it was
until the last of our days in that house

when the rooms will be emptied
of the aged furniture

and those curtains will come down;
until the carpets are gone as they are both gone

and I lock the door behind me;
until all that will be left

will be memories of myths
of birdsong, gratitude, and escape.

If I were the last postal worker on earth
there would be too much left to deliver. Instead
I’d make a deep pile of all the unread letters
and bury myself in its dead center.

I’d find a way to breathe through mounds of junk.
I’d go tearing through the backlog trying to find
enough food and clothing to survive
in the packages. Of course,

someone out there would be waiting for me
to bring them what they wanted, what they needed,
what they’d been waiting for; longing to hear
from someone, yearning for the sound
of the lid coming down hard on the box
or the sight of the red flag raised upon its side.
I’d have no choice. No room for any of that.

Call me selfish or insane, but if I were
the last postal worker on earth
I’d have to stop being a postal worker at once
in the face of the mountain of need
that had fallen upon me. I know
I’d have to revert to relying on myself
for the most basic needs,
ones I’m not sure I can meet even now

as I wait for the mail carrier to come
and bring me, with no malice of their own,
nothing but dread, temptation,
and the searing murder of, once again,
not one damn love letter.