The Mother


Revirginated mail box
of no use to any man
without a knife. The postman
comes and goes, visits the closed lips
but carries no tool sharp enough for this task.
He cannot open it with his tongue
he has learned never to lick ice unless presented
well-wrapped on a stick from the grocer's
nor persuade it with his strong knuckled fingers
gloved or ungloved to receive his delivery.
He will not spill it upon the ground
forbidden by postal regulations
to leave it save at designated locations
neither G-D nor master of the post has approved
soil or snowdrifts of ice and mud as depository
for his load. Buffalo winters neither excuse
nor invite departures from regulations though ground
delivery would be preferred to holding onto that which he
wishes to leave inside, for both the postman and his client
know that should he spill his mail upon the ground
he would be called masturbator of the mails
and fired. And here's the rub. Those frozen lips may conceal
offerings to him, may secrete bills and credits for the head
of household and should these come due before the thaw
the inviolate box may cause more harm than good, thus proving true
the common male fantasy that curing virginity is a service and a gift
that a woman who says No only hurts herself. The man
can always relieve himself elsewhere,

dump it at the dead letter office or if he can
return to sender. The virgin will never know
which is why I attack my frozen box with force and passion
until, lips still locked, it pops off its post and drowns in snow
producing yet further complications of stubborn virginity.
The postman will not come unless the box sits exactly
36 inches above the ground in spring. No mail for me
'til thaw permits installation of a more cooperative receptacle
for daily visits from my faithful mailman.
'til then I must go to him for servicing my mail needs.