TIHTDS.

Evenings we sit in the living
room, together. Friday I take

my mother’s slot (noon)
at the beauty salon. Ruth,

who for forty years washed
her hair, washes mine.

We’re all in the desert
together. Your mother

liked the water cold,
Ruth says—news to me.

From a thousand
mouths, our dead assemble.
—“Shiva,” Andrea Cohen

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