Quiet, You’ll Hear It.

Grace Boulanger

Desperate thoughts grow gardens
of bitter weeds and crusty dirt,
breaking bones below
the sky, I’d forgotten it—
while looking down, aching.

I grew a patch of tender stems,
they push at the dirt with moderation
grasping and reaching and steady,
all around me, soiling my grief—

Crack the Earth like an egg’s yolk
until the ground runs with the sticky parts
the weeds leave behind to rot.
Runny pulp, soils repugnant cousin,
coaxes green out of new stalks—

I needed these weeds—

When it comes to planting
no one knows more
about the dangers and difficulties
than a sad person.

I’m sure the flowers have a word for this.

They will be here soon.

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