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It’s November again
and eight years since I learned to pray
in a different way–
to the sun,
carpet and a space heater,
familiar shivers in my spine.

Scarves that smell like last winter
even though last winter was lonely
and the winter before that
and the winter before that
even when there was someone else.

A squirrel has been near my window
all week gathering food.
Storing nuts to hide for later,
a pile enough for two,
knowing he’s never going to share it.


Amanda Oliver is a writer and librarian living in Washington, DC. Her
recently published chapbook, Pieces of Parts, features her poetry and prose. Her
writing can be found online at amandaoliver.com and waxenneat.tumblr.com

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