I am in my garden
As I water my vegetables
With bitter tears that burn as they run down my face
And scorch the earth.

I dig deep and overturn the ground
So that it’s dark, damp belly is turned up towards me.
I bury my father’s murderous words
In the pit of this deep hole
Before the dagger seeds germinate in my head
And tell me that I’m something that I’m not.

I slash and sever the roots of malice
That are stealing what pitiful space I have left for joy.
My shovel gives a quick phsist
As it slices deep into the earth.
I heave the shovel’s handle out
And raise my arms above my head
And bring my weapon down hard once more
Onto these roots.

My fingers rip and tear out shoots of green
As I frantically destroy the weeds of doubt,
Fingernails grasping and overturning soil,
Cold dirt seeping and taking refuge
Under my fingernails.
I cut the roots of the weed, the heart of the plant,
So I have a heap of dead bodies
Lying outside the walls of my garden.
They fought valiantly.

Dirt has stained my body with a fine brown dust.
It flakes off and takes new residence
With every violent movement I make.

I am leaving my garden now
With a cold sweat prickling my dirty skin,
But my heart is not an ounce lighter
Than before this battle.
As I open the noisy sliding-glass doors
That lead to the cushy mask that is my life
I find myself again wishing for an end.