| Even on weekends the cruiser would shudder, flicker spaces with a redorange blink, then a gasket crack or a valve stick shut as if by weather or malicious hands, the engine room home of all catastrophe. I would stretch and reach across the bed to find furrowed sheets where my husband had slept until 3 a.m., when he answered the captain calling, whose perpetual fury machine was the only system that never broke, and my husband would yessir to him who was steamingmad on the ship, before slipping into the chill of coveralls, the blueblack uniform of service, which in a certain light had the confining fit of love. Copyright © 2015 by Jehanne Dubrow. Used with permission of the author. |
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