You always washed artifacts
at the kitchen
sink, your back
the room, to me, to the mud
you'd tracked in from whatever
field had just been plowed.
birdpoints, awls and leaf-
shaped blades surfaced from the turned earth
though from beneath some thicker
you tried to see into.
You never tired, you told me, of the tangible
you could admire, turn over
over in your handthe first
to touch it since the dead one that had
the stone. You lined bookshelves
end tables with them; obsidian,
quartz, flint, they measured the hours you'd spent
your head down, searching for others,
also the prized hours of my own
alongside those artifacts
had been for so long lost.
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