she says:
spare me your checklists as
you count my grey hairs, each
one a testament to advancing
wisdom, shrugging on her
cloak of invisibility, to
glide away from the
oasis where horses are
watered, dates, rimmed
with sugar, consumed whole,
crowding the mouth
with the sweetness she longs for,
choosing, instead,
the blank canvas of
the desert,
shifting sands beneath
her feet
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