Cicadas crawl out of the cracked
earth, buzzing. She hasn’t seen

or held a hand
for six days. Is it solitude

or desolation? Sadness? The faucet
drips, the dog’s pink tongue

laps water from a cereal bowl,
then scratches at the door. The smooth

flags of her ears whip
in the afternoon wind as she scampers

through marsh grass chasing a swamp
rabbit. She can’t surrender

to his embrace, his exquisite dirt-
embedded fingers gone. He can’t lace

his leather & nylon snakeboots, mud
crusted from foraging, collect sweet wild

blueberries or scoop fresh
grounds from can to filter. Each day

rolls over her like a thick
fog. She smells, hears—even

tastes—as if for the first
time, fumbling like a baby doe.