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and not to spill a single grain

Your mom welcomes you


half-empty sugar packets


her palms. She takes them

for dollars.

They perch like fledglings;

the puffs of white grace

awaiting their take off

“Can I hold them?” you say

and she slowly deposits them

into your hands.

Each grain of sugar

carries its own trajectories

of longing

Like the centrifugal leaps

of your mom’s neurons

make her grasp the inscape

of things.

One needs to be an oracle

to hear an oracle