as i sit there, digging
i can't help but think
that all of this is futile.
scooping out soil from
the embalmed earth,
planting rotten seeds.
ancient stones, quartz and granite
recovered in sweaty palms
darkness burrowed under fingernails,
nothing but wild exiles
for this ground to swallow.
i am only digging holes
in this yard, in this soil
i thought was my soil,
in this land i thought
was my land, in this america,
i dig up nothing but pain.
give it a couple of weeks
and this poison loam will eat up
those leaves, yank them back into earth
soft petals choking, stems falling—
someone will mistake weeds for blooms
and call it eden.
The online publications Literary Yard and What Rough Beast previously published this poem.