Ill, illus. by the incredible Cybele Rowe
Ill Woke up a few inches above the sheets. My bones were poking out of every pore. The blankets hovered on my sharpest points. I warned my waking wife, “Don’t roll over. I’m pokey again.” “What? Ow. Okay. It’s going to be all right.” She rose fast to pour lotion into my hands. This I patted on, leaving globs suspended from the hair- thin needles covering me. She chattered to make it all seem normal. “I think that’s a good reason to call in sick,” she said. “Would you do it?” I asked. “Okay. You go to the garden. I’ll call Guy.” The sky bled pinks and golds as I stopped and let my toes’ tender skin greet the cold, bare soil. My core felt warm though frost stood in the garden rows, and I was naked as a winter rose. I'm totally honored to include work by the renowned sculptor Cybele Rowe. Check out her art at cybelerowe.com .