and use it to pick clean my teeth

of knots and thorny greens, purge

my gums until all my words run clear.


When expecting the hoe to strike

glacial till at any time, nerves numb;


blood performs its prickly retreat. Still,

every evening the news is an attack.

Politicians eschew masks, fidget with


faces as they broadcast our sacrificial

itineraries. Nurseries shut down but no


one plants the guts of peppers, the punky

eyes of potatoes, crowns of half-rotted

pineapples. Cyclists ride and ride, heads


bared to the sun, so many early melons.

The smog clears but plastic mountains

peak. There’s marrow to harvest here


if only I were keeping such bones to roast.