An Acre of Absence


An Acre of Absence


We bought a plot of vacant land where things take too long grow.

So he built the house with his hands, brick-by-brick. Then dug the soil for

the fence. He has cut his hands too many times, we have run

out of things to cover them.

For the twelfth time this month, I tell him how the buds in the garden

remain just that, regardless of the season. April went away soundless.

From the other side of the room, I can tell he is upset.

The next night, he takes the bus and comes again in the morning

With flowers wrapped in newspapers. It is not the light I wait for any longer,

it is his palms holding a handful of soil.

Rain. Some days he appears here, other days he doesn't.

But he is never gone.

I dig one feet worth of ground, let the water fill it slowly.

I know now that the soil will always remain this way. I

am reminded of the twenty years he will come

just as he does today, meaning to say he loves me, but won't say

so. Instead, he will head to the place I have dug and plant what he can,

even when his hands are empty. I suppose he wants to tell me that even

in the same room, we long for each other.


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