I want to hug my mom.
She moved 15 miles from the ocean,
making my hometown just a town.
She corrects me–13.5 miles from the ocean.
Closing the miles between us, I drift west
with the books that survived Marie Kondo.
Am I the envelope shepherding destruction written in invisible ink?
Buy me a lemon wedge to rub across the paper.
Places to visit:
Gas stations, grocery stores, gravel pull-outs.
And every flag announcing a coffee hut.
Due to national coin shortage, please use exact change to buy lemons.
Did you know:
This is the longest time we’ve gone without seeing each other.
If a lemon costs .89 cents and I have
three feathers, half a clam shell, and a rock
from the underbelly of Ranger Creek
that follows the shadow line behind the family cabin,
how many more nickels do I need to read the future?
If you pick something up, do not set it back.
I’ve stopped touching those things that curious me.
The heredity of my nose, the solidity of a handle,
the palmistry of a newcomer, the freshness of a baby.
Read only the words you trace into your inner arm.
When I’m 15–no, 13.5–miles from a horizon
I break like the ocean might
into her arms.
First Published in Fever Dream, Winter 2022 Issue