But when you look closer: a man and woman perched in the front of his bloodrust pickup. 
Her body’s half-spilling out of the ajar door, bare feet threaded through the open
window, as if this accident called life is gentle. They’ve the bohemian slouch of out-of work 
kids. But who cares? What’s real to them is real. How can they sit, until earth suns a different 

side of itself? They’re wrong for each other: love premature as a robin’s egg waiting to meet
gravity on a dark lawn— maybe he works with his hands: a painter. A carpenter. His hair’s
shucked corn, picks trees out of lineups with his thumbs. She has a snap to her voice she’s
picked up from a city and can’t put down. He sands her sharp words until no longer blunt.
Should I keep describing them, after objectivity fails and sentiment takes over?  I’ve tried 

distance. But that hasn’t worked: but I’m afraid to love you until my ribcage caves in on my 
heart, like a miner who has spent his last second breathing gold. But, a man and a woman
can’t go anywhere without hard work and argument. Though we sat in the truck, lord knows 
how long: not going anywhere, not working, not arguing, until the storm gave up. I’ve
decided to leave them there. For rain to keep freckling the windshield. For them to stop 
hammering logic on a world where the weather’s erratic as the heart. Yet regular as its beats: 
each day goes on, not caring if they do. So they should love this strange world—
For as long  as they can stand to be in it.


Published in The Sycamore Review Issue 21.2 Summer& Fall 2009.

Copyright © 2009 by Maria Nazos. All Rights Reserved.