The new dark of evening, and when the Post
Office closes for the night, it’s conceivable the workers
pat each other on the back, punch out, go home.
Or maybe they host rituals of ambergris and fire, dancing
nymphs, a sacrificed lamb? Could happen. Not likely, but how
do we know? The doors are bolted. The windows, shuttered.
The floor could unlock to reveal a corridor to the underworld.
The job of the psychopomp was to usher souls from here
to there. Usually, they were horses, ravens, nightjars,
angels or dogs. Famous psychopomps: Mercury, Turms
and Hermes. Messenger gods. Yes, your mail
is being sorted. But other enterprises are underway as well.
Carl Gustav Jung suggested the psychopomp as a bridge
between the conscious and unconscious worlds. My last
therapist found my unconscious world to be a disaster.
Not too different from the actual world with its bruised mouth
and nervous twitching. Tires that float in the river moss. Credit
cards to pay off lesser credit cards. Glow-in-the-dark livestock.
Let me tell you about this dream I have where everyone
I love floats out to sea on a ramshackle raft. No oars, no sails,
and I can never save them! Wait—
What was I saying again?
Oh yeah. A bridge. Two worlds. The Post Office is dark.
And beneath it all, a messenger god might usher the lost
through a shadow. When he returns, it will be dawn.
Doors will open. Customers will tumble forth.
Stamps and twine, love letters and invoices. Death notices.
Tax forms. Anxiety, anxiety. Personalized stationery.