the advice i got from a fortune teller on the night i knew something was wrong

eva gelman | Fall 2021

when we called, 
you told me you spent the weekend 
putting my things in boxes. 
i told you i spent the weekend 
tending to me alone. 

he told me that to break 
is to take an open box and 
close it, then 

but there are boxes that contain nothing. 

i take this box and close it. 
i give it a little shake. 
i squeeze my eyes shut 
and count to three 
just like he told me to. 

the box you sent me 
contains no letter 
no birthday card wrapped in my old underwear and 
no tongue-carved message in the lining of that jacket 
that looked so sweet on your narrow frame. 
this year was full of 
you and i can still smell you 
on the sweatshirt i lent you 
that first real winter we had. 

maybe i’m not a magician, and 
maybe this box contains nothing. 
and maybe this box is nineteen months 
deep and maybe 
my nineteenth year will be full of 
other things. 

the shipping label 
contains no sign of you. 
i tell myself i knew before 
i even opened it. the truth is, i 
must have known before i 
closed it.