Recovery

Another version of me
thought every stone precious,

gave even the kitchen herbs
names. Since September

I’ve been a ruined house, only
newly shaken loose by

echoes. Chasing sentences
to their ends, herding words

with a leaf-blower: gentle
but blunt, and loud.

I test the soil, I measure
the temperature. I know

I’ve lost, but not exactly what.
Weeds metastasize faster

than I can pluck them.
I dream of a snail shell

enclosing me; I dream of
a gun I can’t stop firing.

I knew what I was getting
into. There came a day
when my daughter first
touched grass. My only job

is memory: remember
the grass, with the beetles

edging the blades? Remember
the poppy’s black beauty marks.

Another version of me
remembers. Another version

died on the bathroom
floor. On my knees

in the garden I can hear
the clock bells ring. I can wield

my memory like a weeding tool—
two-pronged, metal, and light.

I can re-make your face, rehearse
history, and call it whatever I want.