He offered, write about dirt so how could I
refuse--that place we grow worms, lifting the bin's
lid and turning the rich stuff, dark and smelling
dank as the monthly blood I used to bleed,
when I was younger, when I thought
I might grow a beautiful thing under my belly skin.
The worms duck for darkness
while the iris bulbs in the garden's
back corner reach their new green fingers
towards the light, and I look at my palms,
their deep lines caked with soil.
I'm planting seeds--flowers and lettuce.
This making of something not a substitute
for the small someone I wanted to--and didn't
carry. I think about her sometimes:
her curly blonde hair messy from rest
as I spoon tiny portions of oatmeal into her
mouth. Instead, I curl the sweet pea tendrils
onto the first rung of their string trellis.