Indelicacy

by Amina Cain

Sitting at my desk, I feel loving toward my wrists. I’ve made them do too much.

It rains in a drawing, and if the drawing is good, you feel wet.

Or I would go to the library to find novels to bring home with me, as I had before, though my husband insisted I buy any book I wanted.

We were born to die, but death can feel unreal if we’re comforted in the right ways.