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.