Airmail

The track of a sliding door can cut into bare feet. I teeter above the metal anyway, daring skin to break. The night is too blustery, but the house is too still. Better here, in limbo, my body existing in the space between. I shoot paper airplanes at the darkness, each folded from a letter. That’s another thing that can slice skin: single sheets of paper. Dear baby, dear baby, dear baby… I had written 12 before the miscarriage. Wherever babies go when they don’t make it here, do they get
mail? I aim the last plane for the stars.