Cosmic tortilla

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Drop me a psychic postcard full of
pictures and poetry from the other side
of town, and I will tell you all about prophecy
mixed with numerology, Arabic writing on
all our palms that makes God appear when
we pray or hold hands.

The phone rings.

An ocean away sits the 18 to my 81 and I
know how to calculate time zones quickly these
days — both forwards and backwards. A piece
of me here, a piece of me there, and all the glue
spilled out, sticky yolky yellow that tastes good
with a pretzel and a coffee.

Disconnect.

Puzzle pieces spread over the kitchen
table, like my legs were there a few weeks ago,
but I said my prayers last night and kept
them crossed. It’s okay to be a good girl.
Your hair still says it all.

Declined.

56 rejections. 28 submissions. 14 years
old, and the boys still don’t like it when I say
“No.” Happiness is still the center of the
universe, where good coffee and good girls
giggle and learn why Mecca makes sense, tell
each other that the rain will stop in a few
days, and each time it stops beating, it’ll
beat again. In the good way.

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