Rasma Haidri


Everything my mother needs can be found at Woodman's:
cigarettes, milk, unsalted rice cakes, and six black bottles
of diet cola. I want to buy a lottery ticket she adds,
weaving stiff-kneed, half-blind, to the far corner,
near videos and packaged liquor.

Neither of us knows how to go about it. I fumble, rubbing in
the dots from numbers she scribbled on a scrap of cardboard.
I look at her familiar cursive, wondering where she got these numbers

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