Clouds are yanging raindrops
while I go about my murder
escapades that I maybe enjoy
more than should be admitted,
but it feels good to yank weeds from
the soil they don’t deserve to feed from
and pile them up in a mound of nutrient
suckers no more. There’s just something
about tearing those mofos out
of that black dirt and shaking their roots
free of it, hanging limp in my hand
like the lizards I used to clip on my ears
as a fashion concession to my mom
who wanted me in pink bows and frilly dresses
while I ran around in my brother’s underoos.
Spider Man did my homework and made mud pies
in the garden. He could swim like a mermaid
for hours and roller skate like Linda Blair.
The milkweed is freed from the stranglehold
of the crabgrass, betony, and chamberbitters
and the rain has given me a water-beaded hat,
cooling my mind. A hawk landed on the ground
in front of my car when I got home from work
this afternoon. He looked back at me, spread
his wings fully on display, and flew off with
a strand of wandering jew stuck in his talons.
The August Garden Makes Me Want a Lobotomy
My yard genetically engineers monsters
in the guise of green trench coats and coy
cloche hats. Berries and seeds ride every
wheeze, every exhale from my swamp-air
laden lungs, scattering their troops
to sprout from hidden trenches.
Never mind the birds.
Hungry birds. Always the birds.
Spreading these beasts into every niche
of my odd-numbers-look-natural
planted plot that doubles as my grocer.
Where are all the Paleo-fanatics?
I’ve got an all-you-can-eat
buffet of dandelions to pair
with your mastodon skewers
and this diet will surely work
dreams of bikini-ready bodies.
Fruitless blackberry vines have eaten
my azaleas and I can’t say I’m mad
at them, but I’ve got their aqua
tofana of vinegar and salt water
on the rocks ready to serve.
And what is this trunked brute?
I know I didn’t plant a tree,
but here stands, like on royal
guard, a weed so strong
I could attach a hammock
and take a nap in its shade.
The August garden makes me want
a lobotomy. Blistered palms, sunburned
shoulders, joints vice-gripped
into claws. I revel at the thought—
frozen, February faces.