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Show DARK EARTH, 1963 We go down into that sour dark, the cellar. I go down praying I'll come back, too old to wait, too scared to look back. She carries jars of fruit. I'm helping her but don't like this part where she pulls the light on. The racks seem to jump and the bulb bobs in the black air like a spider's egg. Everywhere things move that I don't dare touch. She lines the jars in rows in the dust and laughs when I cough. Dave, she laughs-but I'm already back up the stairs. I slam the door down on everything below like the lid of a jar, her grave. |