by Michael Beard
The United States Postal Service thinks
my father and I are the same person living
in two places at once.
I have the mail to prove it, our likeness—
how he names me again
and again with each new envelope.
This time, AARP
advertising its member benefits, a card
with the next three to five years reflecting in the light
(depending on our bundle preference.)
I rip apart what time we don’t need
as if we have plenty—
misdelivered hospital
bills burning a hole in the coffee table, the endlessness in those zeros—
how I can’t stop imagining the day
my father’s death will be sent to me, unmarked
envelope, the empty space
a breath where our name has always been familiar,
then all the regular mail, far off in years,
waiting for me and only me—
Michael Beard (he/they) lives in Cincinnati, Ohio and holds an MFA in poetry from Bowling Green State University. Their poems have appeared or are forthcoming in trampset, BOOTH, Puerto Del Sol, and others. Michael is the editor-in-chief of the online literary magazine Paraselene.