Hot Metal Bridge

Current Issue : Number Twenty-Five

The Mailman

BY QUINN WHITE

One Saturday, I rode with the mailman,
no seatbelt, braced against packages, unsure I was legal.
 
August, he soaked a handkerchief in ice water,
said last week a one-eyed dog ran in front of the truck.
 
Off, its depth perception. He spoke of hit birds and turtles.
We debated what makes a parcel, considered
 
fish, bees, the box of chickens
delivered dead because they stayed
 
too long in the heat. He mentioned a poster
behind the mail clerk’s desk explaining
 
animals fit for shipping. In the afternoon weeds,
I found a shrine to Snow White and six dwarves.
 
We couldn’t decide which dwarf was missing.
 



Quinn White is a MFA candidate at Virginia Tech. Her poetry has appeared in The Straddler, A Bad Penny Review, and is forthcoming in Dirtflask.