Fragile, said the stamp
in dark black ink imprinted
on the cardboard box.
The bottom of the F
was not quite dark enough
to read, but there was no mistaking
the message. Things break.
All day, I imagine
the word invisibly stamped
on everything I see. Fragile
on the aspen trees and Fragile
on the chopping board and Fragile
on my daughter and the woman
I sit next to in the pool.
The red-tailed hawk. The cantaloupe.
The plastic bag. The lawn.
In the mirror, I see the word
in all caps on my cheeks. I remember
that afternoon in the car when
I wept and told my friend that I was breaking.
Open, she said, not down.
There is no shame in breaking.
Still, this chance to treat the world
with tenderness, as if the day
itself relies on how we hold it.
Another one of those puns in the title, dear R, if the cardboard box arrived by mail. But the fragile is carried carefully through the poem, the ending a perfect place to set it down.