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My shower curtain has 81 black roses.

There are 27 stairs that lead to the female section in the mosque I go to;

98 prayer beads etched on a loose string that Jiddo used to carry around;

& two moles on my beautiful mother’s face.

I don’t know why these numbers matter,

Nor do I know whether counting them

is my expression of attachment

or an attempt at detachment.

My shower curtain has 81 black roses.

Sometimes when I’m done counting them,

I stare long enough for the pareidolia to kick in.

Today I saw a man with a pipe, a rooster, and an escort.

I don't know why these numbers matter,

What I know is that someday

Fridays in this mosque will be a stretch away,

That Jiddo passed away four years ago,

And unconditional love found

My mother's face for a permanent abode.

These numbers are labels

I place on the crevasses

of my fading memories

and short days.

My fingers & toes turned pruney last night,

The water grew cold and I lay in the tub staring up at the yellow light

I tried to count the amount of times I did not remind my mother that I love her.

The numbers came rushing like quote scrolls in the streets of New York,

and the rest was a blur.

41 Palm Trees :) Newport Beach, CA