Bitter Clean Dirt
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She is still in bed, her body a fold of sheet. I cover her like a blanket. It's not a sickness of her body, it's the head. The wind rattles against the window. We both search the drained landscape with different eyes. I have dirt deep under my fingernails. I have broken more bones than bread, than hearts. I love her. I fear her. I miss her. There are more feelings than words that travel the roads of me.
"Get up," I whisper in her neck, my stubble little explosions in her skin. "Lots to get done. Come on, now."
(From The Potomac)