Rituals by Eli Dunham

There are only two things Hunter hates most of all: burnt toast and doing laundry. Because the list is so short, she is always reminded of burnt toast as she folds Jade’s boxer-briefs, which makes for an unpleasant every Wednesday morning. However, Wednesday afternoons always compensate: Jade makes fish tacos and they spend the day watching Godzilla movies in their freshly clean underwear. 

When they finally migrate to bed, it is late and springtime. Hunter sits on the bed and looks out the window. “I wonder what spring is like on the moon.”

  Jade elbows Hunter off the quilt and counters, “I wonder what springtime is like on the rings of Saturn.” 

“C’mon, Saturn doesn’t have seasons.” And Hunter turns out the light.

On Thursdays Hunter goes to work in her kitchen, she lifts the blinds and lights a cigarette. She only smokes when she is inventing maps; it makes her feel sophisticated, which she thinks makes her maps sophisticated. Next she scours search engines to ensure that her ideas do not already exist and then she spends all morning illustrating them in charcoal. After a long day, Hunter ribbons the map and places it in her purse.

On a peculiar Thursday night, Hunter walks downtown with the heavy sun; at the edge of 8:30 and summer, a disheveled tourist approaches her and asks if she has a map. Enthusiastically, Hunter hands her recent illustration to the woman, “I designed this myself.”

The woman, bewildered, cannot find her current or destined location on the map and asks if Hunter would guide her. Hunter reviews her morning’s work and hesitantly leads them out of town to the edge of a cliff. She takes the woman’s hand and steps.

Eli Dunham (they/them/theirs) is a mental health counselor in Sacramento. They were a finalist in the 2025 National Poetry Series and in the 2025 Donald Hall Prize for Poetry.  Their work can be found in Dream Pop, Mantis, Heavy Feather Review and elsewhere.

22 May 2026