To whom do I sing happy birthday, as I’m washing my hands? To whom do I pray, as I’m washing my hands, and at all other times?

Remember the old worries? How they’re piled like stones, how they’ve become an altar? How the altar is way out there, on the horizon? How there’s nothing but horizon, now?

How many pears per bag? I ask at the food pantry. Eight, says Darnell. How many pears per bag? I ask again, two minutes later.

When did my hands become old hands? When did I stop looking in a mirror? …

Rachel Toliver

Thinking about cities, cats, public and domestic spaces. New Republic/ Brevity/ TriQuarterly/ American Literary Review. https://www.racheltoliver.com

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