What Happens to the Postwoman When She Stops Delivering the Mail
She asks for sugar from the family downstairs. There is relish tasting the front of her shirt. In exchange, she cuts their children's hair before the mirror. She hasn't been eating well. A half-open sandwich licks the linoleum with its sweet ham. She disguises herself as a coin. The one-room flat, in turn, disguises itself as a pocket. When the windows become unemployed, they are painted shut to keep in heat during winter. The children, though differing in height, grow bald as one unit as if taken aside by blood donors. They leave beautifully through the door. Afterwards, she rips the phone directory to make fire. The matchstick crackles an orange rose. She watches her index finger disguise itself as a birthday candle. She casts shadows on walls: on one side, she has the profile of Lincoln; on the other, she is a monument for the dead.