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Time Zones

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Time Zones

Stacy Pratt

My pillow wears his t-shirt
but when I wake at night,

I don’t pretend it’s him
lying there, headless and legless,
his sleeves empty.

I add ten hours to the clock,

picture him dusty and thin,
eyes like mercury,
reading my latest letter
in the safehouse
in Kirkuk,
wishing

he could pace the floor
on patrol around my kitchen
until his absence
woke me.