FedEx
I think of you while I FedEx boxes
in the mailroom to Terre Haute, Indiana,
the city where you were born.
I decide to slap a FedEx sticker to my stomach
and let the delivery man beep over me.
I wave goodbye to my co-workers
and hop on the back of the truck.
They deliver me to your new
home in the red china urn.
I shrink down to ash size.
Your pieces embrace me.
You still smell like cold cream.
I’m going to buy us a tiny bed
and I’ll quit my job
because we won’t have to pay
rent from underground.
