He is telling her about a trip
he is about to take.
He is leaving out anything that might hurt her.
Who he is taking.
What he feels.
Why he left her.
His voice is carefully casual.
She nods, smiles absently.
She traces the barely raised ink
of her Pepsi bottle
with an unpolished fingernail,
scraping slightly,
finding no gap,
no place to begin its destruction.
Small Poems de Terre 