Wrap the Babies in Cashmere and Tuck Them Away

Adrienne Barrios stands in line at the post office and wonders if she will ever stand in the last line at the last post office that ever exists. She is returning a package to Nordstrom—a shirt that would not fit three Adriennes put together. She thinks the word sulfur but she doesn’t know why. The person in front of her in line sweats gunpowder. She wonders what she would do if he pulled out a gun, any gun, and pointed it somewhere, anywhere. At her. Through her. Over her. Every preposition followed by her. She wonders if time would freeze before her heart gave out. Adrienne Barrios hates thinking about guns and would rather read a poem about Leigh Chadwick thinking about guns. Adrienne Barrios wonders if a bullet feels like a lie. She wonders if she should send Leigh Chadwick’s daughter inside the box to Nordstrom, where everything is soft and cashmere and no one has guns. But she knows even this is a lie. Everything is a gun if you live long enough or are constantly squinting. Adrienne Barrios, who will never have kids, wonders how to keep Leigh Chadwick’s daughter safe. From bullets. From lies. From the bushes with the thorns. From tomorrow and every day after.