Sister Nancy and I play mailbox baseball.
We fell boxes, hoard people’s secrets like Fabergé eggs. People hold lives worse than our own, among ruined beer bottles, runaway mothers who can’t be found.
We hate illusions.
Mailboxes hold credit card offers. Midlife indolence. Magical stimulants. Lawyers promising fortune from settlements. Catalogs with actors playing smiling families.
We relish victory, but I want to apologize. Losers can’t turn on losers. Nancy holds ruins of mailboxes with tenderness, as if trying to piece everyone together.
One night, we knock over our own mailbox. No offers of love. Just twisted metal.
We want illusions.
Yash Seyedbagheri’s work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as Maudlin House, The Drabble, Door is a Jar, and Ariel Chart.