By Sara Kandler
I bookend my days with the pop
of a tiny white powder sphere
toward the back of my throat
then a gush of cool water.
And you, I ask my friends, don’t you feel different?
How do you process so much time past
and balance on the slender edge
of an entirely new universe?
They appear stumped.
So I meander on, turning over smooth grey rocks in the garden in hope of a hidden message
(my mom’s whimsical “hello” and “stay cool” stones giggle from my kitchen windowsill)
and stare up at the mysteriously amber stars in the deep winter sky.
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