Sunday, June 10, 2012


With conviction I tipped the dirt
and the shovel's solid goodness
shot up my arm like a fuse fired.

For a second, the worn handle
gripped my fingers as though
I would not be released, a tongue

bonded to a metal pump in winter.
Gobsmacked, I looked at the bulbs
I meant to conceal in the rich loam

and they looked at me with the eyes
of the potatoes my parents planted
each March, a rustic Eucharist. 

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