Children of the Mail

Children of the Mail

We were born with No Postage Required tattooed on our backs, and we wonder why we’re forever sending ourselves away. We stink of ink; our skin is rough as yellowed paper as it ages. Our tongues taste glue, no matter what we use to wash it away. We are forever hearing the postman’s footsteps while we try to get on with our red work. Each tooth, a quarter. Each quarter, a curse. There are gods in distant cities passing over each of our children with fingertips stained with the blood of the newborn. They’ve wandered onto pedestals because they could make no miracles of their own. They smell like cigarettes and granola, crunchy failure and stale ambition. They are legion, and we would all trade 5 a.m. for their workload. We scribble out loaves and fishes, raise the dead as offering.

They say:

We’re sorry.

We’re sorry.

Try again, later.

We say:

Amen.