Forage
I turn clay soil, mound rocks, squeeze grubs with my fingers. My spade, the soil, a rasp. A dry northeast heat wave.When I was five, Mamá chopped my hair. Wild girl, alwaysin a tangle. Holes in your jeans, grass stains on your sweaters. Through my hair, wind, dust, twigs.Impatient bumblebees,you know we’ll have flowers. I …