It was like we were living inside a postcard.
That much was obvious. But to whom?

A postcard to whom? As much as we tried
we couldn’t see what was inscribed

on the other side—a recipe, an insight,
a list of sexual positions: itchy crab,

velvet cannonball, the Swedish kamikaze?
And we could only imagine the penmanship

the story of our lives was written in:
communist block letters, crude italic, belly

dance cursive, a doctor’s fried chicken
scrawl. Our biggest fear was that the flip-side

was empty. That’s what gnawed at us
like termites in a pirate’s wooden leg, made it

hard for us to hobble out of our mineral water
beds in the morning, despite the pajamas

knitted from Aborigine hair, and the sunrise
with our initials woven into the corner.