Yard Work
I’ll clear the old,
putrid fruit,
the carcasses of
bees where oranges have fallen
and the drying turds
the dogs have dropped.
I’ll sweep away the
fallen avocado leaves
grown snowy with
their infestations,
snip the stems of
toppled flowers, toss them.
I’ll yank the hose
across the grass,
turn the rusty
faucet,
let the lawn moisten
to a loose, runny
black.
I’ll water the
rosemary
till I can smell it
on my fingers.
Time to grab the
trowel.
Time to dig,
to take off the
gloves,
let the handle
callous the palm,
fill the fingernails
with dirt.
Time to brush the
trickle from the forehead.
Time to plant the
bulb,
to fill the hole
with loam and water,
covering the roots.
Time to join the
soil to soil
until the night is
jasmine
and a thickness like
a scent of lilies
rises off the bed;
until the stalks of
the naked ladies fall to the ground,
twisting on their
roots;
until our broken
fists lie blooming.
Source of the text –
Sarah Maclay, Whore. Tampa: University of Tampa Press, 2004, p.
61.
TJB: The poet’s squat pen rests, snug as a spade in
this paratactic ars poetica where poetry entails digging and planting bulbs,
not blossoming.