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75
and not to spill a single grain
Your mom welcomes you
with
half-empty sugar packets
in
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