by Moses Fisher
“You’ve been away.”
“I’ve been away.”
She was folding his laundry on the bed. His t-shirt was tucked beneath her chin. It was clean and smelled like lilacs. She loved the way his shirts smelled after the wash. She loved folding his shirts and laying them in neat piles.
He unlaced his boots, sitting on the edge of the bed, facing away from her. He smelled like someone else’s sheets, he smelled like the gasoline spilled on his sleeve, he smelled like his clothes had been neatly folded, tucked beneath someone else’s bed, while she had been left to rot.
Photograph by Alison Deland Scott
Smoky Quartz 