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He detonates at 5 a.m.

The sound is unmistakable:
first flesh, then second thoughts.

The windows rattle as we two women do in aftershock.

Bolt upright from the floor, you mutter, Bismillah.
I shudder, Shit, and grab my swelling belly.

Usually, the head survives intact, a hand in a tree.

By 6 a.m. we quit Jalalabad.
I apologize and disregard

your cold, coal eyes when I reach for the backseat's only belt.

Eliza Griswold

Prairie Schooner

Winter 2013

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