• Sarah Palladino

A Yearn for Dirt

The dirt,

it travels along my floor

forming a clear path.

It covers my blanket, comforter, pillows—my bed.

The grimy feeling against

my skin.

I wash my sheets, the dirt—

it’s gone.


You would come from the outside

drawing in soil left on your paws.

In my room, you jump on my bed and

kiss my cheek.

Your paws constantly create a mess.

It’s displeasing—an inconvenience.

Consistently, I wash the grit away.


As you lay there, I cuddle up to you.

Resting your head on my stomach,

I scratch behind your ear.

I watch as a soft smile forms across your face.

I embrace these moments—a reminder,

all my efforts,

are worth these moments.

I notice— my bed,

it’s starting to get filthy again.


I wash my sheets,

You— recently bathed

lay next to me.

The sheets are warm— clean, cozy, comfortable.

No dirt to be seen.


Then, you weren’t to be seen.

Your soul left, taking any specks of earth.

No more need to wash my sheets weekly.

The dirt, it’s vanished— you have

vanished.

That foul feeling— the inconvenience,

I long for it.

The dirt was a gift,

the implication of having you.

Our bed, now truly my bed— is clean.

Your consistent presence— now just a mold

in our mattress— in my heart.

I yearn for dirt.

I ache for you.


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