The Mailbox

This white-dust road is in for an evil storm today.
The wind seems up to something by the casual way
it whistles by. Here, sixteen miles from anywhere,
a weedy mailbox waits, mounted on an auger,
a spiral blade ripped from a combine harvester.
This hard twist of American DNA,
caduceus-like, has cured some beery boy’s addiction
to knocking down the mailbox in his black S10.
The flag is a red ear against the head’s bright white
and the door a hound dog’s tongue hung out.
The letters of a letter crawl to life and bite,
blackwidowing the hand that reaches in.

We're glad you're enjoying First Things

Create an account below to continue reading.

Or, subscribe for full unlimited access

Already a subscriber? Sign In