by Ruth Dickey

I keep thinking this line from a play: it takes the body
18 years to replenish every cell. We are literally new

every 18 years. When my niece turned ten,
she whispered to me on the phone that ten

was different, she and her friends had special
rituals and wishes. At ten, you knew things,

we knew things. I remember ten: tea parties
under apple trees, in my great-grandmother’s

beaded dresses with my cousin, promising
we’d spend the day before our weddings

together. Forever seemed like soft bat wings,
sweeping and diving. My marriage was 18 years;

my cousin was not there. I am as never before,
am literally new. The sky is full of clouds

settling down like hens. Morning is the time
for hunger. When I can’t sleep, I count backwards,

count beads, count hungers, count orchards.

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Ruth Dickey has spent 25 years working at the intersection of community building, writing, and art. Her first book, Mud Blooms, was selected for the MURA Award from Harbor Mountain Press and awarded a 2019 Nautilus Award. The recipient of a Mayor’s Arts Award from Washington DC, and an individual artist grant from the DC Commission and Arts and Humanities, Ruth is an ardent fan of dogs and coffee and lives in Seattle. More at ruthdickey.com.