In the box is her pregnancy, it doesn’t look like most women’s. Though it weighs 8
pounds, 5 ounces, a healthy heft and size. She stands before the UPS man and the
locked dispenser holding other people’s secrets destined for the same shredder. She
does not look at him, nor he at her. The man grabs the contents at the top of the pile,
sloppy, rushed. She watches paper dreams miss the mark, slip from unfeeling hands,
float to her feet, an order and sanctity that no longer matters. There, a satin ribbon,
red and wrinkled; there, golden gloss, faded and scuffed. U.S. Department of State.
Embassy of Haiti. Embossed seals, certified, authenticated. French accents, once
precious, now stilled. She kneels before the fullness of it. She gathers to her heart
the emptiness of it. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. A paper soul recycled back to
mother earth.