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Deposits of dirt under my nails. You shovel mulch
into a wheelbarrow while I tear up the grass, each blade
clutching the earth with its intricately hidden
root system, vast & sprawling. Blisters bubble
on both our bodies, rough up the skin of our hands,
the bottoms of our feet. We communicate via grunts
& an occasional interjection: raspberries need full sunlight,
you say, as if to justify your decision to rip up yards
of healthy grass behind the house. Your scars dip
across your chest, flatter and calmer than mine,
which are still red & raised, scar tissue decisively
visible. It is hot but not humid, a dry heat
that suppresses our sweat. A hummingbird
slices through the breezeless air, pursues
the sugared water you left out this morning.
Last night I dreamt of you despite being only
a room away. You don’t touch me anymore, except
in this dream. Sometimes I envy your life—
the physicality of it, the way your body
has been forced to harden, how you’ve grown
to know the name of each plant & bug & bird.
I don’t mean to romanticize labor, but I miss the days
when it felt like I had a purpose beyond
translating the world into language. You
tell me to take the weeds we’ve pulled, the grass
we’ve dislodged from the ground to the burn pile.
Not tonight, you say, I’ll burn it after you’re gone.