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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.

from EverythingFind more by Andrea Cohen at the library

Copyright © 2021 Andrea Cohen
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.

Published in Andrea Cohen Poems

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

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