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Alisha Goldblatt
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Written yesterday (very hot day, brain melting) for the writing marathon as we sat in the divinely cool post office of Gorham, ME.  ROUGH!  Bless, press, express, slam, whatever.

We’ve got our metal lockboxes of possibility,
but this wan building could be in any
bedroom community, USA . The emblazoned
wainscoting boldly announces
our colors, this red white and blue of modernity blazing into a historically rural town. Is mail a patriotic entity? It sings of movement and desire,an escape from one landlocked city to another, the lucky ones shipped overseas and stamped repeatedly. I’m that man behind the counter, I see
urgency, the haphazardly wrapped parcels, the priorities of mothers, IRS missives, variable rate services, quiet expectations.

Every so often I just break the law. The letters slide through the slots half opened, seal loose and sticky, easy prey. I tamper without offense,my curiosity and wanderlust exposed, and I'm always disappointed. One Dear John letter, an un-funny Shoebox birthday card, a torn piece of loose-leaf with a child's scribbled depiction of a garden, sun half shining
and plants loose-limbed, crows alight on the sunflowers.

It's a federal case if I'm caught, but often I'm the only one here,
the faces on the stamps eyeing me with feigned interest. I reseal
the mouths of the envelopes discreetly, an oath rising in my throat.
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