7. January. “A Hug from a Large Man for a Long Time, part VI” by Amanda Beekhuizen

The soil is wet and dark, fecund and nutritious, richly filled with rocks and worms. The soil cannot be contained. It stains the white cover, stains; the smallest particles of dirt move through the fabric’s weave, from inside to outside.

I lay beneath it, roll and wrap myself, feel its weight press around me.

I am a burrito, a swaddled baby, a child’s arm trapped within an inflated plastic water wing. The tip of a straw between lips. All the things we found buried in the backyard when we dug it up to build a French drain: a homemade dice, a rooster pin, a glass bottle of cherry coke from the early nineties. A rock at the bottom of a pool, a hug from a large man for a long time. A hug from a large man for a long time.

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