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.