Marianne Shaneen

The Peekaboo Theory

The buzzer rang I rushed down the stairs it must be you but
only the mailman, a package, I didn't feel my pupils
contract when I stepped outside into midday light to blindly
sign for it. you weren't there to help me determine how many
pounds of sunlight had fallen to the earth this morning, or
to notice as a singular luminous beam through the vestibule
window hit the mailbox key dangling from my finger and was
deflected onto my cheek

or to register the distance between that key and the sun
that diffused its heat preventing my cheek from having a
hole burned into it

lone orb, one star of billions, that would have melted each
snowflake but instead they were keys, (as any internist can
see, no two livers are exactly the same shape--all of us
having the untapped potential to recognize one another
according to the unique shapes of our livers)

and you weren't there to see that when I checked my mail
today there was no word from you