A pitchfork, plunged teeth-first
into the earth, is his instrument
for cranking the heat. He churns
dead leaves deeper into the belly
of the beast while I watch.
Even in summer, steam
rolls off the pile’s top. He tips
the bin, slopping broccoli stems
and orange peels onto rotted
grass clippings. Coffee grounds
cling to the porcelain lip
of the container he sets down
so he can kneel on the ground;
reach into the brown,
heaving mass; then reveal—
in his open palm—earthworms
smearing his soil: homemade
and already broken down,
thanks to the aerating forces
of fork tines and invertebrates
who chew through the dark,
leaving tunnels in their wake.
Microbes walk these halls,
make their methane
behind closed doors only.
Fungi festers in the walls, while
bacteria ensure everything ends
up damp and delicate. Behold:
Mother Nature’s guts, held in
by a low wall of chicken wire!
Not everyone has the courage
to respect a rind, much less
consider its molding flesh
a nutrient-rich gift. Turns out
curating an earthy stench
is an act of resistance.
Hovering my hands over the open
pile, suddenly I’m a girl again,
recycling a campfire’s warmth
into my soul. My imagination
is a hot, active gas.
Below me, the mound breathes
like a bear curled into herself.
Her exhale collapses like life.
Her inhale rises like life.
