Thesis:
I want to hug my mom.
Methods:
No gathering.
No uncovering.
No contact.
Fun Fact:
She moved 15 miles from the ocean,
making my hometown just a town.
Discussion:
She corrects me–13.5 miles from the ocean.
Closing the miles between us, I drift west
with the books that survived Marie Kondo.
Caution:
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.
Posted:
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.
Story problem:
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?
CDC Guidelines:
If you pick something up, do not set it back.
I’ve stopped touching those things that curious me.
Examples:
The heredity of my nose, the solidity of a handle,
the palmistry of a newcomer, the freshness of a baby.
Solution:
Read only the words you trace into your inner arm.
Directions:
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
LINDS SANDERS 