Not Her Cindy Veach (bio) I don’t see the days. —Abdullah, age 9 The watch helps me remember our history. —Ahmed, age 17 —TIME It feels wrong to sit in the waiting area of my hair salon reading an article about Syrian refugees at the same time a woman in foils goes on about why it's condescending for a waiter to address a woman old enough to cover her roots as dear or sweetie. Wrong too that their words, paired alongside pictures of items they carried, rest on a retro coffee table. And if the words are the why then isn't it equally wrong that the flat screen in the corner is chattering about a drunk woman who broke into Omaha's Henry Doorly Zoo to pet the poor three-legged Malaysian tiger? It's dangerous to be adrift in a sea of tigers. When the bigger ship rammed the crowded dinghy it capsized. A refugee named Omar couldn't find his wife or children in the chop. All he could find were plastic water bottles which allowed him to float [End Page 90] the rest of the way. Tell me, how is it okay for a colorist to be mixing my personalized formula, as noted on a 3 x 5 index card with my name on it, at the same time I'm reading this? And this— Greek authorities erroneously reported they'd found Omar's wife—washed up and bloated. In other words, the things they carried were nothing but failed amulets. And isn't it outrageous that the blonde "Live at Five" anchor is telling me that the drunk woman will lose fingers? They told Omar his dead wife was wearing boots. I'm reading his exact words—She was barefoot in the boat that's how I knew it was not her— when my colorist chirps, "We're ready for you, dear." [End Page 91] Cindy Veach Cindy Veach's poems have appeared in Prairie Schooner, Poet Lore, Michigan Quarterly Review, The Journal, Chicago Review, and elsewhere. Her debut poetry collection, Gloved against Blood, is forthcoming from CavanKerry Press. She manages fundraising programs for nonprofit organizations and lives in Manchester, Massachusetts. Copyright © 2017 Cindy Veach
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