I think I hate gardening

but elsewhere, boys declare their
dreams to slay green gods & hold mercury
under tongues. We drink honeydew
& uncover birds in closets, entomb
them properly. My grandmother tells
me to give something to the ground before
it starts looking at you as its grave. She says
you plant things in the ground and watch
them bloom. I spit
out my fear as a hairball
& plant it next to the squash. Shake
closed-loop hands three times for good harvest. I’m
told things don’t grow well
here, too caught up in their fear & old
bones & fear. All writhing knots &
fray. Elsewhere, things don’t grow
well anywhere. You plant things
in the ground & watch them bloom. You
watch them bloom. You watch
them bloom. You. You—
_______________Who’s watching?

Here is stolen soil & sex symbols &
the whistling of an axe’s downward
arc, satellite in increments. Here, boys
laugh like constellations on wheels, children fist
gravel & call them doves. America’s greatest
magic trick: now I’m here, now I’m
not. You can be content, prayer or no prayer. We swallow
fire, chafe & watered-down, make a
moat of the most tender parts of ourselves.
Just don’t ask the earth for more
miracles. We have enough to bury.