William Cody Maher
My name is Irina. My husband is dead. I am expecting our child.
The dust is all everyone talks about in the square. I refuse to wash it from my skin. I go brazenly past the police through the town. I am layered in dust. It is my mourning gown.
The doctors say the nausea is common. . . and that the pain will go away. I laugh at them. I don’t...