Hope Has No Shovel: Why We Fling Our Wishes at the Sky
Watch what the body does with a wish. The child inhales before the candles, holds the secret behind her teeth, then gives it to the room with one hard breath. Lovers press lips to a palm and push the kiss off the hand like a paper boat, up toward a window, a balcony, a departing train. A meteor scratches the dark and everyone beneath it makes the same silent motion, hurling a private want after a falling rock. Mourners lower the casket and lift their eyes. Whatever hope is made of, it has a launch angle, and the angle is up.

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fed everyone else and in that process our families split apart, people in the Homeland grew hungry and we lost the ability to individually feed ourselves with our own labor and the sweat from our own hewn hands.
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